


Glass Half Full

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Brainwashing, Found Family, Gen, Guns of Gamara AU, Hira is briefly referenced as well, Injury, OC character deaths, Slav (Voltron)-centric, Slavery, euthanization, though the alteans would call them non-cogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: A Guns of Gamara raid takes an unexpected turn when the important shipment they intercept is not valuable supplies, as anticipated, but forty-one non-cog Earthling children. And one in particular promises to be an obnoxious outlier in Slav's probabilities, because Sven is anything but predictable.Slav did not join the Guns of Gamara to end up as a babysitter. But he can't calculate any sort of reality where he was given a choice in the matter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely self-indulgent piece I've been working on since season 4 at least. I finally decided to finish it up. It's fully written, but posting may not be as regular as it usually is for me, seeing as I'm also in the middle of moving.
> 
> As a fun fact, there are a ton of OC character cameos in this fic from my other fics. Let me know if you spot any, and which ones :)

“Contact in five…four…three…two… _one._ ”

The Gamara shuttle docks against the Altean transport ship smoothly. The nearest Gun agent immediately activates the jamming protocol, and the ship’s defenses are overridden instantly, enough for them to lever the airlock open without detection. The agent looks relieved. “Intercepted codes accurate. Security lockdown sequence successful.”

Slav snorts at that. Of course it was successful. _He’d_ written it. There was a three percent chance it would fail in only the most unfortunate of realities.

“Good.” Byroc, the current head of their attack team, unholsters his weapon and brings it to bear. “Remember, this is a supplies mission, so there’s no way to be subtle. They’ll know we’re here the moment they realize their transmissions aren’t getting in or out, and they will have two goals: call reinforcements, and kill us here and now. That means we’ve got half a varga to get in, grab the supplies, and get out. Team one is on defense, teams two and three are on supplies detail. Clear?”

As one, the team of twenty-five Gun agents acknowledge with a sharp, “Sir!”

“Good. You two, hold our escape. Slav, lead the way. Death before oblivion. _Go!_ ”

They go.

Slav bolts to the front of the team, gun in his topmost set of arms, already calculating the best approach to the cargo hold. It’s an Alpha-Galax transport shuttle, second class. There are four possible routes to the destination. Two lead through highly trafficked areas and will increase their chances of being seen and getting into a firefight before they even reach the payload by seventy-five point six two percent. A third has only a twenty percent chance of getting them seen but will take too long. The fourth is most optimal, reducing travel time by thirty percent and decreasing possible combat encounters to smaller patrol groups for maximum efficiency.

He chooses route four. The others follow without further instruction, and well they should. Slav is still relatively new to the organization compared to some, having been a member for only a few decafeebs compared to the dozens of others. But they’d brought him in as the resident Altean expert for a _reason._ His genius and ability to adapt and decode the enemy technology and strategy within doboshes has made him unquestionably vital to the Guns of Gamara.

Since actively going on missions he’s increased their success ratio by twenty-three point four five percent. They’re aware of it. They know better than to doubt him in this, no matter how much he hears them grumbling when they think he’s not listening.

The Guns move fast, despite their numbers. They typically operate in smaller cells of two to four members per mission, and tend to prefer stealth and secrecy to outright combat. But this mission simply hadn’t allowed for their standard tactics. Stealing all the supplies in the cargo hold of an Alpha-Galax transport ship was hardly subtle work. Every member capable of combat and not already on a mission was needed for the endeavor.

They didn’t have a choice, after all. They needed the supplies, and badly. By Slav’s calculations, if he’s right—and he is almost _always_ right by a ninety-five percent ratio—they won’t have enough food or medical supplies to last more than a few feebs.

The Alteans are ruthless, wiping out Gun after Gun and free race after free race, enslaving innocents and calling it peace. The Guns are running out of allies. They need to turn the tide, somehow.

Depriving the enemy of valuable supplies and using it to bolster their own seems like a fitting start.

The mission’s initial phase goes well, matching Slav’s estimates. They encounter three skirmishes with gladiator patrols, but the Guns are able to take them down quickly before the enemy can be alerted to their presence.

But they’re only doboshes away from the hold itself when they encounter their first Altean soldier. It’s a low-ranking female accompanied by two gladiator bots. The Guns bring down her and her escorts fast, but not fast enough to stop her from signaling the alarm.

“Keep going!” Byroc orders. “We’re close enough to the hold to lock it down and prevent entry while we gather the supplies. Move!”

They keep going. Slav calculates their chances of escaping alive and simultaneously completing the mission have been cut in half, but perhaps they can make adjustments. _Some_ supplies are still better than _none,_ and will increase their estimated survival by an appropriate percentage.

But when they break into the hold and immediately fan out to lock down the doors for preparations, Slav discovers a _highly_ distinct difference in its contents that adjusts his calculations considerably. Because the cargo hold isn’t full of foodstuffs, raw materials and medical supplies as intelligence had originally suggested.

It’s full of slaves. Specifically, mostly dead slaves.

The cargo hold looks like it’s been turned into a makeshift barracks, with neatly stacked bedrolls and the basic necessities for perhaps four hundred adult aliens in a cramped but survivable environment. All of those aliens are still there, but sprawled in ungainly heaps on the floor, unmoving and staring blankly. The way they’ve fallen, Slav can easily spot the grey spines of the _hoktril_ embedded in many of their skulls. He scowls in disgust at the sight of the filthy technology.

Despite his vast knowledge of the universe, it still takes Slav a moment to recognize the species, but when he does everything makes significantly more sense. Earthlings. Their planet had been conquered in the name of so-called ‘peace’ six hundred years ago, and the Alteans had ‘rehabilitated’ them of their war-like ways. A species that fought so violently amongst themselves would be a danger to both themselves and the rest of the universe, the Alteans claimed, and they had been ‘saved’ from the futility of combat.

It was extremely convenient that they also made exceptional slave labor. Earthlings lacked the brute strength, skill or intelligence of many other races. But they were enduring, capable of survive in a wide variety of temperatures and environments, could subsist on a variety of diets, and bred and matured with absurd speed. Alteans used them for all manner of labor and menial tasks, with the justification that it gave the pacified race something productive and purposeful to work towards in the name of their supposed peace. These ones were probably being delivered to the latest planet in line for terraforming and colonization, where they would live or die by the grace of their so-called ‘caring’ masters.

Not caring enough to let them live now, though.

Byroc swears as the Guns manage to shut down the last of the doors, locking them from the inside with the override scripts Slav had prepared for them ahead of time. “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was a supply ship?”

“The transmission details we intercepted state they were transporting ‘valuable cargo,’” another Gun, Michela, reports. She brings up the transmission report on her uniform’s gauntlet computer, frowning.

Slav leans over her arm, ignoring the way she shifts back and glares at him, and frowns at the translation. “Whoever ran this interception did so extremely poorly,” he comments. It certainly was ‘valuable’ cargo, to the Alteans—just not the cargo the officer gathering the intelligence had interpreted. “The translation is not accurate. Perhaps if they had taken into account the—“

“I don’t care _what_ went wrong right now,” Byroc snaps. “We weren’t expecting to find slaves on this ship or I’d have strategized differently to rescue them. _Damn_ it! They activated the _hoktril_ ‘peace protection,’ didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Slav says, scowling around the cargo hold. “They did.”

The ‘peace protection’ was a disgusting advancement in the _hoktril_ technology in recent decafeebs. While the _hoktril_ sapped the free will from a slave—or ‘non-cog’ as the Alteans preferred to call them—they _could,_ with careful practice and just the right counter-tech, be disabled again. Slav had discovered the secret himself, after countless feebs of study. The slave would be freed and able to live a life of their own choices.

But the Alteans hadn’t liked their so-called peace being so easily countered. They’d taken steps to prevent the _hoktril_ being removed and their wearers rescued, by effectively euthanizing the wearer with a sharp jolt to the brain. It was relatively quick and painless—the Alteans, with their twisted sense of mercy, would accept no less. They claimed it ‘saved’ non-cogs from returning to ‘a life of violence and evil,’ and was necessary to prevent innocents from being abused by wicked choices. A regrettable necessity, they insisted, activated only when their hands were forced by malicious beings like the Guns of Gamara. A mercy for the poor individual doomed to return to a life of horror, chaos and destruction.

Mercy, they call it, but any way Slav calculates it, it’s still murder.

It could be prevented, after a fashion. If they’d known they were attacking a slave transport, they could have used special jamming signals tuned to the _hoktril_ frequencies, to interrupt the Altean ‘peace protection’ signal. It would protect most of the helpless slaves from being murdered by their masters until the Guns could escort them to safety and begin the arduous process of permanently removing the device.

But they would have needed to know beforehand, and planned accordingly. Their intelligence had been wrong, and it had just cost them about four hundred innocent, helpless lives.

Slav clenches all of his hands in frustration. All his preparations and he had never accounted for _this_ possibility. The percentage had seemed too low.

Byroc curses again. “Nothing we can do for them now. Guns, retreat—“

“Sir,” Michela interrupts. “There’s still some living, it looks like…”

Slav activates one if his gauntlets for a quick bio-rhythm scan. Sure enough, there are approximately forty additional life-signs, not accounting for the Gun agents still in the room. Surprised, he glances over the collection of dead slaves again.

Ah. Yes. Difficult to spot at first, but there is movement among the bodies. Smaller individuals, huddled near the fallen slaves bearing _hoktril,_ ones that don’t stand out terribly unless they move.

“Quiznak,” Michela hisses under her breath. “They’re _younglings._ ”

Of course. That makes perfect sense. “The _hoktril_ cannot be applied to an immature brain,” Slav points out. “It has a less than one percent success rate.”

Children simply hadn’t developed enough yet for the _hoktril_ to have any real success. It was more likely to destroy the mental and physical development of the host in the process—which for the Alteans, meant ruined slaves. Children were generally kept with their parents until they were of age to begin indoctrination and eventually the implant of the _hoktril_ when they were old enough. When they were young they generally didn’t understand enough to run, and were unlikely to survive on their own even if they did. Their parents had no willpower to save them and would never encourage resistance.

These children were clearly being transported to a new colony with their parents to provide a long-term, generations-spanning source of so-called peaceful labor. Slav is no expert in Earthling maturation, so it’s difficult to say how old they are, but he doesn’t think the largest of them could be more than perhaps thirteen decafeebs. They’d mercifully been spared the ‘peace protection’ triggered by the Guns’ assault, but on their own, even the eldest of them was still helpless.

“We can’t leave them,” Byroc says. “The Alteans will just redistribute them to other slave colonies and implant them later.”

He isn’t wrong. Slav estimates a ninety-six point two five percent accuracy to the statement. Even with a net loss of almost ninety percent of their supply, forty Earthling children will eventually make valuable slaves in just a few decafeebs.

Still, the Guns of Gamara are hardly equipped to handle _children._ Slav acknowledges that they need rescuing, but children are simply unpredictable. They don’t follow basic procedure or pattern and have an annoying tendency to be outliers in all of his calculations. He has no _idea_ how well the mission’s success chances are with the addition of forty Earthling young, but has a strong feeling it is rapidly swinging from ‘highly unlikely’ to ‘totally doomed.’

The Guns don’t hesitate, though. Even though the mission parameters have changed, they’re well trained, enough to adjust on the fly. The ones that aren’t guarding and sealing the doors start to move forward towards the children, to try and herd them into some semblance of order.

But the moment the first agent starts to get closer, several of the children begin to whimper and cry. Some of them cling to each other, and others cling to the fallen bodies of what Slav can only assume are their progenitors. Still others huddle farther into the center of the room, fearfully watching the Guns and their weaponry.

“It’s alright, little hatchlings,” Michela says, as soothingly as she can. She raises the tinted protection of her visor to make her face more visible, and deliberately holsters her gun on one hip. “We are here to help you.”

But the children only back away more fearfully, crying harder.

It is apparent to Slav within ticks that none of the children speak any form of intergalactic common, and they aren’t equipped with universal translators. Hardly surprising, of course—slaves that can’t communicate with outsiders can’t ask for help or barter to escape. He supposes Michela is trying to appear friendly, but he also supposes her large clawed hands, black eyes and sharp teeth aren’t helping matters any. Most of the children regard her like she might eat them.

Except one, anyway.

Slav watches curiously as one of the Earthling young stirs. It—no, he, Slav is fairly certain this one is male—had been crouched near a fallen Earthling male and female with the same dark eyes, dark hair, and pale skin as his. But as Michela takes another cautious step forward, hands raised, the child staggers to his feet suddenly.

He isn’t very large—Slav estimates the child’s head barely comes up to his second pair of arms—and his body is scrawny from exactly enough nutrition necessary for survival without any accompanying training or exercise. It’s hard for Slav to estimate an age when he knows so little of Earthling maturation, but this one looks younger than the eldest of the children—somewhere between seven to nine decafeebs, perhaps. Despite the fact that Michela is more than twice his size and fully capable of shredding him apart, though, the child plants himself firmly between her and the rest of the children huddled in the cargo hold.

Michela blinks in surprise. So does Slav. The child looks frightened still—Slav can clearly observe him shaking—but he also bares his teeth in a warning little snarl. His little hands are balled into fists in lieu of a weapon, and he snaps something at Michela in whatever Earthling tongue the slaves are permitted to speak.

Slav doesn’t know the language, but the ‘stop’ is one-hundred percent clear in _any_ tongue.

Michela freezes immediately.

“We don’t have time for this,” Byroc hisses.

The child glares in a curious mix of fear and anger over Michela’s shoulder at the Gun commander, and rattles something off in his own language. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t move.

“Slav, you speak a billion languages—know that one?” another Gun, Serrata, asks in exasperation.

“I speak one hundred and five distinct languages and all related derivatives,” Slav says with a disdainful sniff, “but Earthling is not one of them.” It’s practically a dead language, after all. Earthling colonies are extremely well protected by the Alteans due to their usefulness, and he’s never met a free member of the species.

The child seems to realize they don’t understand him either—or perhaps he realizes he can’t understand them. He eyes Michela warily, and then says in a shaking but determined voice, “ _Go…away. You…hurt. Stop.”_

Slav’s ears prick up at that. Altean! Rudimentary and broken at best, but at least something familiar. Not many of the Guns speak Altean fluently without the use of a universal translator, but a few do. The chances of a productive conversation increase by at least thirty percent now.

“ _We are here to rescue you,_ ” Slav answers in precise, exact Altean.

The child frowns at that, clearly confused. Slav is not exactly clear if it’s the language syntax or the content that throws him, unfortunately.

He isn’t alone in his confusion—several of the older Earthling young frown at that as well, and seem more frightened by the words than less. They seem to understand Altean, but appear less interested in communicating with the Gun agents. That’s not surprising. Some of them look old enough that the Alteans will have begun indoctrinating them for _hoktril_ preparations—drugged food and medications to keep them passive, and constant reinforcement to obey and behave as peacefully as possible without argument or rebellion. They’d have to understand their masters for that.

It also means they have at least a forty seven point seven two six percent chance of causing trouble in the escape. Slav determines to keep an eye on them.

The little translator doesn’t appear to be trouble, fortunately. At least not in that regard. He has the rebelliousness of a child and the determination to match, but is still young enough the Alteans haven’t been able to start working it out of him yet. He remains firmly planted between the other children and the Gun agents, but glances back and forth carefully between Michela and Slav now.

“ _Rescue?_ ” he repeats after a moment. Cautiously testing the word.

“ _It means we’ll take you away from here,_ ” Michela says. Her Altean isn’t as fluid, and warped somewhat by her Schilean accent, but it’s passable enough for the child to understand.

He frowns at that again. “ _Away?”_ He repeats.

“ _Away from the Alteans,_ ” Slav clarifies. “ _No more slavery. No more_ hoktril. _”_

The child’s eyes widen at that, and flick down to the nearest fallen adult Earthling, and the gray spines sticking out the back of her skull. The fear in his expression is real. When he looks up again, he swallows, and his voice still shakes, but he seems marginally less afraid of them. “ _How this?_ ”

“ _You must come with us,_ ” Michela says. “ _Tell all of the other Earthling hatchlings to follow us. We will take you to our ship. We will take you to a safe place where you won’t be slaves. But you must be good and follow so that we can protect you.”_

The child bites his lip, clearly unsure.

“Incoming Altean troops,” Serrata warns, near one door. “Ten doboshes until they break through.”

Which means they’ll lose their escape completely soon after. “ _Hurry,_ ” Slav says. “ _They are coming. If you convince them all to follow there is a fifty-three point six two seven percent chance the majority will escape alive—_ “

“Slav!” Michela snaps.

The child only stares in confusion.

One of the older children, huddled far back from the Guns, rattles something off in the Earthling tongue. Their translator cocks his head while listening, and then regards Slav and Michela. “ _He say…run, hurt. Alteans mad…we run. Angry. Punish. Stay is safer.”_

Yes. That other one had _definitely_ begun the indoctrination. There is a ninety-seven percent certainty.

Michela opens her mouth to argue, but Slav cuts her off. “ _Running will be dangerous. There is a seventy-five percent certainty that someone will be injured. A twenty-two percent chance of at least one fatality. A thirteen percent chance the mission fails completely. But to stay means a one hundred percent certainty of the_ hoktril. _”_

The child stares at him again, eyes wide.

“Damn it, Slav!” Michela snaps. “Commander, _please_ tell him to shut up!”

“You know that’s an order he won’t take,” Byroc says.

Michela mutters under her breath. “ _Yes, little hatchling, it will be dangerous,”_ she says, “ _but I promise we are very good at what we do. Our job is to protect you. We’ll get you out of here, and then you can be free. That’s worth it, right? Freedom? To make your own choices?”_

The child frowns at her for a moment. Glances back at Slav. Glances down at the adult Earthlings surrounding him and the other children, and swallows again. “ _They…up…when?”_ he asks, pointing at the nearest fallen Earthling, a female that shares many of his own characteristics. “ _They…rescue…too?”_

“ _No,_ ” Slav answers flatly. _“They are dead. There is no reality in which we can rescue them.”_

“For Quiznak’s _sake,_ Slav, they’re _hatchlings!_ ” Michela snarls, causing many the children to flinch. She takes a deep breath to compose herself. “ _Sorry, little ones. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. We will take care of you, I promise. We’ll find a way. We can’t take them with us, but we will protect you._ ”

Several of the older children, the ones that understand Altean, are frightened and tearful. The little translator looks stricken for a moment. He stares at Slav again, silent and wide-eyed.

Slav stares back, unrepentant. It doesn’t matter what Michela says—he refuses to offer an impossible probability, no matter how much it might hurt. Those slaves were murdered. They aren’t getting up again. But if these children are to survive, they don’t have time to dwell on false hopes and maybes.

Slav isn’t sure what goes on in the little translator’s mind. He watches as the child finally breaks eye contact and squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing. There’s a little glimmer of wetness around his eyes as he breathes in and out, once, twice.

But when he opens them again, his expression, while still full of fear, confusion and sorrow, also contains determination. He finally relaxes enough to turn his back on them, and rattles on in his own language to the others.

Whatever he says, it seems to galvanize the other children into action. Many of them sniffle and cry still, clinging to each other or their progenitors, but they wearily begin to climb to their feet. Their translator helps a few up, and gestures for others to move. Some are unwilling to leave the fallen adults, whimpering and sobbing as they cling to them, but the translator is patient as he coaxes them away to stand with the others still living.

Now that they’re more active, Slav realizes that their ages range from nearly ready for the _hoktril_ to one tiny Earthling that can’t be more than a few spicolian movements old. Several members of Gun teams two and three carefully gather the smaller Earthling children when the translator beckons them forward. The children, although clearly uncomfortable bordering on terrified of the Guns, permit it when their translator convinces them to accept the help.

It takes a frustrating five doboshes to have most of the Earthling young gathered near the door, but despite that Slav is actually surprised at the speed at which they act. Then again, even the most rebellious of the children must have learned to act immediately under their Altean masters, and to do so as quickly as possible. Even the oldest obey wordlessly, frightened but too instilled with the need to follow orders to rebel now.

But in the end, all of them are ready. The children are in a ring with the Guns carrying the smallest ones, and the defensive team of Guns surround them, weapons in hand. All told, there’s forty-one children of varying ages.

Slav wonders if this will be the reality in which they all make it to the Gamara shuttle.

“ _What is your name, little one?_ ” Michela—now holding the tiniest Earthling of only a few spicolian movements in her claws very carefully—asks their translator.

The little translator stares at her for a moment, and glances over at Slav. Slav merely shrugs his second set of arms. He has no idea why that one is looking to _him_ for the answer. Slav has answers for many things, but he certainly can’t be expected to know this one’s name for him.

“Sven,” the child says finally, pointing at himself.

Michela nods. “ _Alright, Sven,_ ” she says in slow, careful Altean, “ _We need you to stay in the middle of the group with us and the other children. We might have to give directions. It’s your job to tell the others, so we can help rescue everyone. Okay?_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sven answers. “ _I help._ ”

“ _Good,_ ” Michela praises. For some reason, this makes Sven frown, and he glances over at Slav again before looking back. Really, Slav can’t figure this one out. Another one of those obnoxious unpredictable outliers. “We’re ready, Commander,” Michela says out loud in common.

“Alright,” Byroc acknowledges. “Protect these kids at all costs. Slav, get us out of here fast. Go!”

They burst through a different set of doors at Slav’s advice. There is a seventy-four point five three two percent certainty that the Alteans are lying in wait along the route the Guns were first reported on, hoping to thwart them from getting back to the ship with the children. But the other three routes are still viable, and at this point, probably safer.

His estimation is correct. There are some gladiator bots and two Altean soldiers waiting outside the doors Slav chooses, but the Guns overwhelm them hard and fast before they can sound any warning. Team one scouts ahead and takes down attackers from the front and rear, while team two focuses on guiding the children, and team three provides support to both other sets of duties.

Slav counts the children’s heads rapidly as they move on from the first skirmish. Forty-one. Good.

They encounter several more small packs of gladiators and Altean soldiers along the way. Each time the Guns manage to bring down the attackers with minimal difficulties. Each time, Slav does a head count after. All Guns are accounted for. Children count is still forty-one. Things are progressing smoothly so far. At this rate there is a very high likelihood that they will succeed with no further issues.

But then they hit their first difficult encounter. At an intersection of several hallways along a more heavily trafficked point in the ship’s design, they encounter several groups of gladiator sentries. The fighting becomes dangerous, with rifle blasts flying in all directions from both Gun weaponry and gladiator firearms.

The children are pushed back again as much out of the way as possible while the Guns take down their opponents. But the bright flashes and loud noises cause several of them to start crying in fear, and a few panic. The Guns have difficulty managing them and fighting at the same time; there aren’t enough agents to reassure all the children _and_ engage in combat.

The fighting turns brutal. Slav manages to dive through the hail of laser blasts to reach a better vantage point, and lays down fire until he eventually takes out two gladiators keeping some of the Guns’ better fighters pinned down. Once freed, they manage to burst out and wipe out the remaining gladiators attacking from a different hallway, finally clearing the way.

They’ve won the firefight, but their losses are higher than they’d like. Two Gun agents are dead in the skirmish. Three others are injured, one badly enough that she needs assistance moving. The children aren’t hurt, but they are terrified, and the chokepoint is a mass of chaos and movement.

“Leave our dead, we can’t spare the manpower to move them,” Byroc orders. There’s nothing the Alteans could pull from their uniforms that would assist them; Slav’s coded all of their computers to forward new data to another agent and then wipe themselves in the event of life signs flatlining. “Get the kids. Team three, focus on child duty but be prepare to assist in fights. Move—hurry!”

The Guns move fast. Several members of team one move ahead to scout and clear out minor obstacles, while teams two and three gather the children. Slav remains close to Byroc, running and re-running their odds in his head while counting and re-counting heads in all the chaos.

“—way? _Slav!_ ”

Slav blinks at Byroc, who scowls. “Quit counting everyone again, Slav, and tell me which way we’re—“

“We are missing two,” Slav interrupts.

“I know we lost two,” Byroc says, gritting his teeth. “There’s nothing we can do for them. I—“

“We are missing two _children,_ ” Slav clarifies. “There are only thirty-nine.”

“What?” Byroc glances at the chaotic mess of terrified kids the Guns are trying to herd together again. “How can you even _tell?_ ”

“I counted them.” Slav searches the faces, hunting for the six older Earthlings in particular that he had earmarked as having a high probability of returning to the Alteans. Sure enough, the child that had protested earlier is missing.

Byroc swears. “They must have run off in the firefight. Maybe they were scared—“

“Or returning to the Alteans. One of the missing children is older and may have been indoctrinated.”

Byroc swears again. “And the other?”

“The other is…” Slav’s eyes widen. “The translator. Sven. He is missing too.” A much more serious issue—they need that one to communicate with the others. The Guns are doing their best to organize the children again, but they are frightened of their rescuers almost as much as the Alteans. Sven had possessed some ability to calm them and convince them to follow—without him, the success chance of completing the mission with all children alive and safe drops an unacceptable fifty-three percent.

Odd that he’d leave, though. Certainly Slav had seen no signs of indoctrination in him, and he clearly had no love or loyalty to the Alteans. His chances of returning to them willingly seem less than one percent, and no Gladiators or Altean soldiers had gotten close enough to attempt a capture.

Unimportant. If he wastes time calculating probabilities based on unpredictable outliers he wastes chances to recover the missing children. “Here,” he says, bringing up one of his gauntlet screens. He taps out a fast calculated route and transmits it to Byroc. “Use this route, it has a seventy-five percent chance of safely returning the most combatants and children to our shuttle.”

Then he turns and darts away from Byroc, back down the way they’d come.

“Slav!” Byroc yells. “Wait! Where the hell are you—“

“I have the greatest understanding of Alpha-Galax ship structure and Altean combat distribution,” Slav shouts over his shoulder. “I estimate a thirty-seven percent increase in success if I find the missing Earthlings, which in turn increases our chances of saving the other children. Go! I will find alternate routes and meet again.”

“Quiznak, Slav—“ Byroc curses, but then switches back to command. “Everyone, move. Serrata, use Slav’s map to guide…”

Their voices fade as Slav bolts back the way they came, gun at the ready in his uppermost arms. He’s already calculating the best route to take. There’s only so many halls the Earthling young could have reached, and their only chance to break away would have been during the chaos of the firefight. The eldest has an eighty-seven percent chance of trying to return to Alteans, meaning a direct route to a highly trafficked area that non-cogs would still be permitted to see.

Slav takes the left handed path based on these deductions. It’s an assumption, of course, but it’s an assumption with a high probability of being right.

His choice pays off. He follows down two more short hallways before discovering the first of the missing children: Sven.

The child is almost at the end of the hallway. His luck is _exceptional_ in that he’s somehow managed to avoid any patrols, a shockingly low eighteen percent chance of occurring. The chance of meeting resistance increases the longer he is away. But they’re not too far from Byroc, still—Slav can grab Sven, return him to the team leader, and then perhaps spare time to search for the final missing child while Sven’s rapport with the other children increases their chances of survival.

It’s not the best plan, but it is the one with the highest chance of success. Slav darts down the hallway, and snags the back of Sven’s slave uniform with his third right hand, pulling him back before he turns the corner. Sven starts to yelp, but Slav hastily slaps his third left hand over the child’s mouth to keep them from being caught.

 _“Quiet!”_ Slav hisses low under his breath in Altean, raising his second left hand to his beak in a universal gesture of silence. “ _No screaming. We will be caught.”_

Sven stares at him wide-eyed, but stops fighting once he recognizes Slav. He tugs at the hand over his mouth, and Slav takes it back.

“ _We must go back,_ ” Slav says. “ _The others need you._ ” He wraps his second right hand around the child’s own little one even as he releases the uniform, and tugs him back the way they’d both come.

But to his surprise, the child digs in his heels and tugs back, resisting. _“No!”_

Slav whips his head around and scowls at the child. “ _I am trying to_ rescue _you. Your chances reduce significantly if you resist—at least forty-seven percent! Now come_ on, _we have to go!”_

He tugs at the child’s hand again, insistent. Sven tugs back, scowling. Slav doesn’t think the child understood even half of what he said—his understanding of Altean is clearly too rudimentary. So he tries to simplify, as frustrating as it is. “ _We have to go! You will be caught again!”_

“ _No!_ ” Sven repeats, tugging again to free his hand, struggling for the end of the hallway. “ _Einar away! Need…me…help! Einar away!_ ”

Slav’s ears prick up at that. Einar? “ _Is that the other Earthling?”_ he asks, gesturing with his second left hand at the estimated height level of the other missing child, the one that had objected earlier.

Sven’s eyes widen, but he nods enthusiastically, and gestures more frantically at the end of the hallway. “ _Away…there. Hurt, maybe. Need…me…help.”_

Slav sighs in exasperation. At least one question is answered. This one hadn’t run off due to any indoctrination. This one thinks he’s a damn hero. He’d probably seen the first run off and was following to bring him back, especially after Michela made such a big deal of him assisting his fellow Earthlings. “ _You want to help him,_ ” Slav clarifies.

Sven nods. Slav can feel that he’s shaking slightly—he’s obviously scared, as a child of his age probably should be in this situation. But his expression is full of determination.

“ _You know you have no chance of retrieving him by yourself._ ”

“ _Try,_ ” Sven answers stubbornly. Then he considers, and adds hopefully, “ _You help?_ ”

Slav scowls at him, but the child doesn’t seem deterred at all. “ _I’ll help,_ ” he finally agrees, “ _But only because it was already my mission to retrieve him too. And for the record, there’s a thirty percent chance we’re going to die attempting this.”_

Sven either doesn’t understand the last part, or he’s ignoring it. He tugs at Slav’s arm again. “ _Go! Fast!_ ”

“ _Not like that!_ ” Slav snaps. He can’t hunt down this other child _and_ protect this one when he’s out in the open. “ _Get on. I am not going to risk the high probability of_ you _dying in a firefight after going through all the trouble to recover you._ ” His skills as a translator and motivator for the other children are simply too valuable for that.

Sven doesn’t understand at first, but Slav gestures insistently at his back with is second and third sets of arms, and the child’s eyes light up in understanding. He clambers into an awkward piggy-back, hooking his arms around Slav’s torso just over his second set of arms. Slav supports him with his bottom set of arms, hooking them under Sven’s legs to hold him steady.

The little Earthling’s head presses awkwardly against Slav’s back—Bytor as a general rule aren’t really made for carting around bipedal four-limbed creatures—but the child is still small enough for him to pull it off. More importantly, it lets him keep track of _exactly_ where this little wandering Earthling is. He will be able to shield or control Sven’s involvement in any firefights that may come up.

“ _Stay put,_ ” Slav warns. “ _Don’t run off or there is a high probability you will die. I will help your friend if I can, and can do so in many realities, but only if you are not distracting. Understand?”_

Sven makes a frustrated noise, although Slav isn’t clear if it’s because he doesn’t understand everything that was said, or if he just doesn’t like the rules. After a moment he feels the child nodding into his back, though. “ _Yes.”_

“ _Good.”_ And without wasting further precious time, Slav heads down the hall Sven had gestured to earlier.

He’s a little slower than before—with his unexpected passenger, Slav isn’t as agile as he is generally capable of. Even so, they reach the end of the next hallway quickly. He barely has time to begin calculating the probabilities of which way to turn before Sven reaches over his second right shoulder and gestures frantically to the right. “ _He there._ ”

Slav is about to argue the likelihood of it—there’s no way the child could know if he was there, and the _statistics_ —but he pauses. Sven had gotten this far on his own. His luck was absurd, or perhaps this was the _exact_ right reality where things work out just fine, but either way, he was clearly doing _something_ right. Slav is pressed for time. Just this once, he’ll give it a chance. He takes the right path.

He’s genuinely impressed when, one hallway later, they find the missing Earthling. He’s held firmly between two gladiator bots, each one with a hand wrapped relentlessly around the Earthling’s arms, with a third leading the way farther into the ship. None have noticed him yet.

Slav feels the child on his back squirm as he too spots his fellow slave. “ _Quiet,_ ” he warns under his breath. Sven’s arms tighten around his torso, but he feels the child nod into his back again, acknowledging.

Good. He’ll need concentration for this. He raises the gun that gives him his name, and sights the first of the gladiators carefully. Marksmanship isn’t his strongest skill in the Guns of Gamara, compared to other skills he brings to the organization, but all Guns need to be good shots to pass. With his surprise attack and skill level, he estimates a ninety-five percent accuracy rating, and only a point five six percent chance the child would be injured.

He fires. The first gladiator holding the child drops, head shattered. The Earthling backs away in fright, crying out in fear. The remaining gladiators turn to find the source of the attack, and Slav fires a second time, dropping the second bot holding the child prisoner.

The third takes a shot at him before he can aim again. Slav yelps and dodges aside, but it’s more difficult to do with a passenger, and the blast cuts a gouge in his topmost left shoulder. He scowls at that, but manages to raise his own weapon and fire a third time. The shot misses, but the fourth hits, bursting the bot’s head before it can get another attack off.

Slav winces as he lowers his gun and it jars his bad arm. No time to worry about that, though. The wound is only superficial. There is only a two percent chance it might lead to death, and only if left untreated. There is a thirty percent chance it will affect his aim in future attacks, however, meaning he and his charges need to leave immediately.

Slav darts down the passageway to the remaining Earthling as Sven cheers excitedly in his ear. “ _Quiet!_ ” he reminds sharply.

Sven grows quieter, but does say, “ _Thank you._ ”

Slav just shrugs his second set of shoulders, indifferent.

The second Earthling child, Einar, whimpers as Slav approaches and curls up in a tight ball, shaking. “ _We must go,_ ” Slav says, but although he certainly understands at least rudimentary Altean, the child makes no move to leave with him. He’s frightened, and badly, but Slav suspects he’s more terrified of disobeying the Alteans and leaving than he is of Slav himself. He has almost certainly been severely manipulated by his Altean masters; Slav estimates he’s only perhaps a decafeeb away from the _hoktril_ at best.

Not for the first time, he’s disgusted by the twisted way the Alteans abuse their science and technology.

Sven gestures frantically at his fellow Earthling, and Slav reluctantly lets him down. Sven immediately begins to rattle off something to Einar in their shared tongue, and Slav wishes he understood it. Perhaps when this is over he can study the language, and make some sense of it.

He’s never sure what Sven says, exactly, but the child does gesture insistently and grip the older Earthling’s hand. Slav doesn’t know the context of the words, but the tones alternate between soothing and excited. And to Slav’s great surprise, Einar does eventually uncurl from his terrified huddle, gripping Sven’s hand hard, and slowly clambers to his feet. He still looks very frightened, and keeps glancing over his shoulder as though he expects the Alteans to melt out of the walls to drag them back. He huddles as close to Sven as he can. But he moves—which is more than Slav could have made happen in almost any reality.

“ _Run, fast,_ ” Sven says, as he pulls his fellow Earthling closer to Slav, and slips Einar’s hand into one of Slav’s free ones. Then he clambers back up on Slav’s back and holds on tight.

Slav has no objection to that. They’ve already wasted valuable time as it is. He turns and runs back down the hall, tugging the Earthling child after him. Whenever Einar stumbles, Sven turns around on Slav’s back to encourage him, and they make a decent pace.

In the end, they make it back. Slav is frankly stunned that they do. They encounter two more wandering patrols, but Slav is able to take them both down with no injuries to the children, and only minimal superficial graze shots to himself. He takes an alternate route and manages to meet up with the rest of the Guns of Gamara and their young charges halfway there. Sven is able to help calm the rest of the children and encourage them further, and no more go wandering. Only one other Gun is lost in the ensuing fights, and the two Guns left behind have managed to hold their escape.

They manage to herd all of the children into their shuttle and tear away from the Altean transport at breakneck pace. The Alteans follow with pod fighters, of course. But the Guns are able to escape with a mix of jamming technology to interfere with Altean sensors, and clever pilot work to obscure visuals. The children are frightened, but Sven does his best to work with the Guns to calm his fellow Earthlings. He seems to have become the ringleader by virtue of being the only one willing to engage with the Guns at all.

Taking into account all factors, the success chance of the encounter had been less than five percent. The odds are _astronomically_ against them, and yet somehow, in this reality, everything had worked out fine. Slav is…impressed…and he does not impress easily.

Of course, this is only the first hurdle. If Slav’s study of realities have taught him anything, it’s that a change as enormous as this will have drastic consequences, for good or for ill. And no matter how he calculates the odds, he only predicts difficulties ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A significant part of this fic was inspired by me wondering if I could invert the Slav and Shiro dynamic in some way. 
> 
> Incidentally the answer is yes, I can, it's absolutely possible. Excellent.


	2. Chapter 2

Slav is not even remotely surprised to find his dire predictions are accurate, down to identifying the exact difficulties they face.

It starts shortly after the Guns of Gamara return to one of their main hubs, hidden neatly away in a gravity generator of Slav’s own design. The gravity generators had been what bought Slav’s entry to the Guns of Gamara in the first place, several decafeebs ago. Since then, many had been installed to create dozens of hidden pockets where bases and supplies could be slipped unseen. 

This hub is particularly well hidden in a dark zone created by two planets with erratic quintessence fields, making it all but impossible for Altean ships to even see this part of space to begin with unless they were already there. Even if they were, with Slav’s generator, there would be nothing to physically see. It makes it an ideal location for Gun troops to convalesce, train, and bunk when not on-mission, as well as a decent place to store supplies. 

It’s also the only place they can reasonably deposit forty-one young Earthlings. Other bases lack the space or defensibility to put young, even temporarily. Here, there should be a least one hallway’s worth of empty barracks where the children can be kept until a safe planet or colony can be found to transport them to.

Space is not the only issue, however. Byroc pulls Slav aside as soon as the shuttle is docked and the other Gun agents are occupied with guiding the frightened Earthling young down the ramp into their new temporary home. Slav already knows what he’s going to ask before he even does. 

“Three feebs,” he answers the unspoken question.

Byroc blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Three feebs,” Slav repeats, “Until our current supply of food and water runs out. I am of course estimating for the Earthling children. I am not sure how much they will consume per quintent. I know very little about Earthling maturation rates. Three feebs is only an approximate estimate, but I reason an eight-seven percent likelihood of accuracy.” 

Byroc curses, and rubs one of his blue-skinned hands over his face. “Damn it,” he says after a moment. “We  _ needed  _ those supplies. I don’t regret rescuing the kids, but we needed forty more mouths to feed like we needed a hole in the head.”

“Forty-one,” Slav corrects absently. 

“Whatever. This is bad news.”

Crude as the summation is, Byroc is not wrong. The Guns of Gamara had already been desperate for the supplies. A full Alpha-Galax ship’s cargo hold would have kept them appropriately fed for at least another decafeeb, if rationed wisely. The fact that the cargo had been slaves and not food or medicines was troublesome. Rescuing the Earthling young had been the right thing to do, but at this rate, the probability that all of them will survive the coming feebs will start to get increasingly smaller. 

“You could read that transition better?” Byroc finally asks. “You said it was translated wrong, back on the ship.”

“It was,” Slav agrees. “If the translator had—“

“I don’t care,” Byroc interrupts, holding up his hand in a ‘halt’ motion. 

Slav falls silent, mildly irritated. No one ever wants to hear the explanations for how to properly do things.

Byroc mutters under his breath, and finally shakes his head. “Screw it,” he says finally. “I know you’re still fresh meat, Slav, but we’re desperate. I’m talking to the higher ups about putting you in charge of intercepting transmissions and organizing supply raids.” 

Slav perks up with interest. He hadn’t calculated this possibility happening quite so soon, but it is certainly about time. “I will do so the most efficiently,” he agrees.

Byroc sighs. “I sure as hell hope so. The Alteans have us boxed into a corner and if we can’t break those supply routes and keep ourselves going, we’re fighting a losing battle. We can’t afford mistakes like this again. You don’t play nice with others and you’re awful at taking orders, but  _ something  _ has to change, and you’re our only shot. You find us our opportunities and I’ll make sure your on those teams for item extraction.” 

This is an even better result than even Slav had anticipated. Perhaps this could be a reality where things do not spiral horribly out of control . “I will begin preparations at once,” Slav agrees. Then he glances behind Byroc, at the children gathering in the shuttle bay in a loose cluster. A quick headcount assures that all forty-one are still present, as the last of the children are guided off the shuttle by the remaining Gun agents. “Should I calculate for their continued presence as well?”

Byroc rubs his face with his hand again. “Quiznak, I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll need to debrief first. They can’t stay here forever. It’s not safe, and we don’t have the manpower to supervise them. And they’re  _ kids.  _ They’re helpless.” He gives Slav a frustrated look. “You’re sure there’s no free Earthling colony out there?”

“Yes,” Slav says, a touch irritated. Half the Gun agents had asked him that on the way back. “The entire planet was enslaved six hundred years ago. They all belong to the Alteans. There is no free colony to return them to.” 

“We’ll have to see if we can find some other race with similarities that can take care of them,” Byroc says. “Spread’em out through multiple free planets, if we have to. I’ll have to speak to the higher ups about how they want to handle it.”

Slav shrugs. The children aren’t his problem. He’d helped rescue them, but he no longer has any interest in interacting with them. He never joined the organization to be a caretaker. The Guns of Gamara can deal with them as a whole. 

Byroc sighs. “Well, plan raids as though we’re gonna have extra mouths to feed,” he says finally. “If they’re gone by then, more for us in the future.” 

“Certainly,” Slav agrees, mostly because he’d already been planning on doing exactly that. The assumption that he  _ wouldn’t  _ plan for every conceivable catastrophe is frankly a little insulting. 

“Good. Debrief on the mission and then get to work,” Byroc orders. “Start planning, and I’ll see what I can do about making this official in time for you to put those plans into motion.” 

Slav salutes, and scuttles for the door. The faster he can get the debrief finished, the faster he can get to work planning accordingly for the numerous scenarios in which they starve to death or die of basic preventable illnesses, and perhaps find the variables they can use to divert from those realities. 

As he heads for the door, he darts past the small collection of Earthling children. Some are frightened and crying even now, but most are too exhausted and stumbling to care. Many are being carried by Gun agents—some agents from the mission itself, or new ones that had come to assist after Byroc had radioed forward for help. 

But one in particular stands out. Sven, though clearly just as exhausted as his fellow Earthlings, keeps his head back and stands proud as he talks to them in their own tongue. Slav estimates there is an entire twenty-five percent chance he’ll make it to the barracks where they will most likely house the children without collapsing from weariness, and Slav is genuinely impressed with the estimation. 

As he passes, Sven stops speaking to the others, and watches Slav go by. For a moment, Slav estimates that the little translator is about to speak, judging from his wide eyes and open mouth. But then Michela calls him, and he turns to repeat something in his own tongue. The little pack is herded through one of the bay doors to the interior of the base, and Sven is swept up with the rest of them, and then all of them are gone.

_ And good riddance,  _ Slav thinks to himself, as he heads down a different hallway towards his own destination. Children are too unpredictable, as today’s entire series of events had proven. He can all but  _ feel  _ the probabilities settling down into nice, easy metrics with likely calculations again, and sighs in relief. 

He shouldn’t have to deal with  _ those  _ little outliers again. The Guns of Gamara have different uses for an agent like Slav. The chances that he will ever interact with any of those children again before they are relocated to safer colonies are a comfortingly slim fifteen percent. 

He heads down the hall, no longer giving them another thought, already running through probabilities and percentages for his next missions in his head.

* * *

 

For several feebs, his calculations are correct.

That is to say, Slav is kept enormously busy with his new tasks, which the leader of the Guns of Gamara approves—though grudgingly. He overhauls Gun resources, researches trade routes and intercepts transmissions, which he translates  _ correctly  _ this time. He strategizes raids on Altean ships to interrupt their supply routes and resupply the Guns of Gamara, to both efficiently inconvenience the enemy and bolster themselves. He calculates for each possible setback and designs his attacks accordingly, and supervises with extreme meticulousness on each strike. Much of his time is spent away from base. When he is in what constitutes as his home, he is deep in his research and locked away in his room, barely interacting with anyone outside of necessities.

They are successful, of course. Slav had calculated and planned for success, and planned for catastrophes down to the last tenth of a percent. By the end of the first four feebs of his command, the Guns of Gamara are safely out of the danger zone once again, resupplied enough to last them at least two decafeebs. The additional food and supplies will permit for more recruiting, more soldiers, and more advancements in technology and training. And Slav had created further standardized procedures to increase the efficiency of future attacks as well. The Guns will survive another quintent. 

Slav is perfectly aware of the general discontent from those under his command, though. They complain behind his back constantly, about him being ‘nitpicky’ and ‘too controlling’ and ‘a quiznaking pain in the ass.’ The words are inconsequential—he has never particularly cared about others’ opinions of him, nor does he particularly care for their companionship or camaraderie. 

But the soldiers under his command rotate almost constantly. He never has the same ones twice, and that is simply inefficient. He has to spend an unforgivably long amount of time re-training new batches of strike teams to his exact specifications, only for them to not participate in the next round because of inane complaints. 

His success ratio cannot be argued with, as far as Slav is concerned. His careful planning and percentages succeeded where no one else could. They should hurry up and accept that he’s statistically correct the vast majority of the time, and cease complaining.

He suspects higher ranking agents do not entirely feel the same way, because as soon as the organization is in the clear on supplies, they revoke his ability to lead strike teams. 

“I am successful ninety three percent of the time,” Slav says, disbelieving. “Casualty ratings are under ten percent. I have successfully re-supplied the Guns of Gamara with a surplus that will last well over a decafeeb!” 

_ “You  _ did not do all of that, Slav,” Jaxxor, the leader of the Guns, says with a shake of his head.  _ “All  _ of those men and women did. Each agent participated.”

“I planned everything! My calculations made it possible!”

“As did the manpower of every single agent involved, Slav,” Jaxxor says. “This isn’t your victory alone. The Guns of Gamara are a team effort. You could not have accomplished it by yourself.” 

Slav grumbles to himself. None of  _ them  _ could have accomplished it on their own without him, either. They’d still be attacking the wrong ships, getting lost in them, planning for incorrect protocols, and a host of other deadly results. Assuming they had not starved at this point in time, which they would have had at least an eighty-five percent probability of by now.

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Jaxxor continues, “and I will still welcome your input on future raids. I brought you in as our Altean expert for a reason. But you’re not good with people, Slav. You’re too negative and too confusing for soldiers to follow. You act too erratically and unpredictably and you don’t care about teamwork. Soldiers need a leader they can follow without hesitation. They trust your numbers. They don’t trust  _ you. _ ”

Slav doesn’t particularly care if the soldiers trust him; he’s more insulted by the notion that people think he acts  _ erratically  _ and  _ unpredictably.  _ He acts perfectly within a predictable margin. He of all people is aware of that, with his mastery of probabilities. How dare they even think it!

“There is a high probability this implies I will no longer be on supply raids,” Slav observes, staring the leader in the eye.

“That’s right,” Jaxxor agrees. “I’ll have other tasks for you. Tasks that will be done in smaller cells, or with solo research. No more larger teams, for now.” He hands Slav a holodisc. “These are your new orders. You’ll be on-base for a little while to assist with repairs and improvements to our tech, as well as researching enemy data. Now that we’re comfortably supplied again, we need to shore up our defenses and start planning for the attack. I want a solid understanding of our enemy before we try it.”

Slav grumbles, but takes the disc. It feels like a bit of a setback and he dislikes it, but he reminds himself this is highly irrational thinking. Any opportunity to spit in the eye of the Alteans and their abhorrent abuse of technology in the name of ‘peace’ is a good opportunity, be it in the field or at base. 

He just wishes he didn’t feel so insulted by it. 

So he sets into his new tasks. The leader is not wrong; their defenses certainly can use improvements. He spends his first spicolian movement improving his gravity generator, and the next reviewing their ranged defenses and fighters in the event of an attack. There are numerous ways he can improve their efficiency against Altean combat protocols, and he now has plenty of supplies with which to do so. The tasks are relatively simple and lack any sort of challenge, but they are satisfactory in their own way, and sometimes comfortingly repetitive. 

It’s during one of his revisions of their fighters that his probability calculations provide a result that is nearly unheard of: they are  _ wrong.  _

He’s in the shuttle bay when his probabilities slip into the unpredictable. The stealth ships require more advanced cloaking, and he’s two arm pairs deep into the mechanics, making a list of what parts he still requires for a new installation. When he finally withdraws in order to compile everything on his wrist computer, perched precariously on the edge of one wing, he’s greeted by a sudden and unexpected voice. “Hi!”

Despite himself, Slav startles, and nearly slips off the edge of the wing. His race is an arboreal one, fortunately, skilled at climbing and leaping. He manages to turn his fall into enough of a nimble jump that he can make it to the bay floor without splattering on the metal. 

Once safely on his feet, he looks around, surprised. He had not expected anyone to address him. Nobody bothers to interact with him outside of missions, which he finds to be a perfectly acceptable arrangement. He had not expected anyone breaking what  _ had  _ until this point been a comfortably predictable pattern. 

The moment he finds the speaker, the unpredictability makes sense. Sven is only a few feet away, watching both the stealth ship and Slav himself with awe. 

_ Children,  _ Slav thinks to himself.  _ Completely unpredictable outliers.  _ Out loud, he asks waspishly, “What are you doing here?”

Sven blinks. “I wanted to see the ships,” he says, pointing at the stealth ship Slav had been standing on thirty ticks previously. “I want to fly one someday. Then I saw you again and wanted to talk to you. Michela says I should practice with people anyway.”

The child is speaking intergalactic common now, Slav notes, and with reasonable fluency. Several feebs of being in Gun custody must have included some degree of education. His vocabulary is still somewhat limited, but he seems capable of communication well enough, especially without translators. Like  _ hoktril,  _ universal translators can be tricky with immature minds, and generally aren’t applied prior to a race’s first notable phase of maturation. 

He also, curiously, appears to be sporting a Schilean accent. “Have you been learning Schilese too?” Slav asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Learning what?” The Earthling child stares at him in confusion.

“Schilese,” Slav repeats. “A language. One you appear to possess the accent of, despite what is now a one hundred percent certainty of not speaking it, based on your response.” Fascinating. There is a ninety-nine percent certainty, based on this, that Michela was the one responsible for teaching the Earthling young basic common. She  _ is  _ Schilean, after all. Intriguing, that she has managed to gift an accent as well as her knowledge. 

The child only stares in confusion. No matter. Slav already has his answer. “What are you doing here, in the hangar?” Slav repeats, more precisely. 

“I walked here,” Sven says, as if it were obvious. 

Slav can already tell this conversation is going to take  _ work.  _ All conversations are irritating social constructs, but children and their lack of parameters and patterns make them so much more difficult.

“You are not supposed to be here,” Slav says, crossing all of his arms in front of himself. 

That much is an undeniable fact. Slav has not interacted with them again, but he has paid enough attention to ongoing base statistics to know that several feebs after the rescue of the children, they are still in the Gun base. This is mostly because, as far as Slav is aware, they have yet to find any safe place to put them. 

Most free colonies and planets are not willing to take in Earthling young, not when the Alteans find them so valuable and will punish planets severely for even the perceived transgression of “stealing” them. Planets that have been willing to take in Earthling children lack the necessary similarities to the species to make them viable as caretakers. Earthlings are social mammals with very specific needs during their formative years that most volunteer planets aren’t capable of providing. 

That means the Earthling children remain even now in the Guns of Gamara base. All of their physical needs are met, and some Gun agents from races with similar biological and social structures to the Earthlings do their best to help care for the children in their free vargas. They have space to grow and engage in enrichment activities, and clearly they have been receiving at least some form of education. They aren’t caged, like the Alteans had kept them. But there are still too many places in the Gun base that are dangerous for any kind of young, and the hangars are certainly one of those places. 

Sven seems to realize he’s broken a rule, so there must be some structure for the children regarding wandering off on their own. He appears contrite for approximately six ticks, before his tiny child mind is distracted by something else completely. 

“Why do you have so many hands?” he asks, staring in fascination at all four of Slav’s crossed arm pairs. 

What kind of inane question was this? “I was born with them,” Slav says. He uncrosses all but his topmost pair and tucks them away into several pockets on the side of his base uniform, where he often keeps tools while he works. 

“That doesn’t seem very normal,” Sven says, with all of the irritating bluntness only a young  _ anything  _ can fully achieve. 

“It’s normal for  _ me,”  _ Slav says, irritated. “The likelihood of any Bytor having only  _ two  _ arms is less than one percent, even taking into account genetic mutations and accidents.”

“Well, Earthlings only have two arms, and Alteans only have two arms, too, and so does Michela,” Sven says. “That seems normal to me.” 

Slav wonders when this idiotic conversation will be completed.

“Can you do stuff with all of them at once?”

“Yes.” 

“Like, can you pat your head and rub your tummy?”

“If I desired.”

“Will you show me?”

“No.”

“How come you keep all your hands put away? Why don’t you use them all?” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” Slav asks with a scowl.

Sven stares at him. “I just wanted to know. I’ve never seen anybody with so many arms before.”

“Well, I am extremely busy,” Sven says irritably, gesturing at the stealth ship this annoying child had nearly caused him to fall off of, “And if you can’t ask better questions, I may consider the possibility of throwing you out the airlock to be rid of you.” And he points—still with only his topmost set of arms, just to keep the child from being distracted again—at the airlock set to one side of the hangar.

Sven stares harder, wide-eyed. Slav congratulates himself on finally silencing the little pest. 

“Would that be fun?”

—Or not. 

“No,” Slav snaps. “It would end in your death ninety-nine percent of the time. You would either freeze, or suffocate, or a number of other environmental deaths might occur.” He narrows his eyes. “So do not test me.”

Sven’s eyes are wide as saucers now. Slav sighs in relief and turns to head back for the stealth ship again. 

“What if I put on a space suit? Would it be more fun then?”

“No!” Slav hisses, whirling around, and waving several of his arms in agitation. “Then you would only be ejected out into the depths of space until you starved, or became caught in a passing celestial body’s gravity, or a host of other minor probabilities!” 

And before child can fire off yet another idiotic question, Slav shoots back with one of his own. “Why are you in here where you are aware you are not supposed to be bothering me?”

“Oh,” Sven says. “I wanted to thank you.”

Slav finds himself so baffled by this answer that he actually forgets to be angry. “Thank me?” he repeats, confused.

“Yes,” Sven says. “Because you helped save me and all of my friends. And you helped save Einar too even if that was a lot harder.”

“That was my job,” Slav says, still perplexed. “There was a ninety-five percent chance I would have done it regardless. I did not do it for  _ you.” _

Sven’s brows furrow in confusion at that. Specifically, at the numbers. Slav wonders if they’re even bothering with a decent education for these Earthlings outside of language. They had better be. Mathematics are just about the only thing that can truly be trusted in the universe. 

“You still did it,” Sven says finally. “And you did it different than the others, ‘cause you told the truth, and that’s how come I followed you, and told everybody else to.”

Slav blinks at this. “The truth?”

“Yeah,” Sven says. “About how dangerous getting rescued would be.” 

The probabilities, Slav realizes. “I didn’t tell  _ the  _ truth,” Slav corrects, irritably. “I told a  _ potential  _ truth. It was a probability. A possibility, and possibly even statistically likely, but not guaranteed.”

Sven’s confused little frown grows even deeper. “A…a what?”

He doesn’t even have the  _ vocabulary  _ for probabilities yet, Slav realizes, with a jolt of disdain. What are they  _ teaching  _ these Earthling children? “A probability,” Slav repeats, more clearly. “A…chance that something could happen. I calculate the chances based on statistics and metrics based on this and other realities—“

But the child’s eyes are already growing wide from what must be far too many words he doesn’t know yet. Slav resolves to give Michela a talking to about the merits of a wider education later. For now, he will make  _ sure  _ this one at least has a foundation in perhaps the most fundamental and relative of sciences.

“Like this,” he says after a moment, changing tactics.  _ Small minds, small ideas.  _

He fishes around in one of his pockets until he finds a discarded Altean coin, a five-unit piece colloquially called a ‘crystal.’ He holds the coin up in front of the child with his second right arm, ensuring it remains at eye level. The child blinks as Slav holds the coin first one way, then another, displaying the engraved head of the last Altean king Alfor on one side, and the burst of juniberry leaves on the other. 

“If I were to toss this in the air,” Slav says, gesturing with the coin, “And let it fall on the ground, which side would be face up?”

“I don’t know,” Sven says, confused. “You didn’t do it yet.”

_ “Exactly!”  _ Slav says, jabbing his top left hand into the air. Sven only looks all the more bewildered by the reaction, and Slav almost slaps his tail on the ground in frustration.  _ Small minds,  _ he repeats to himself.  _ Small ideas.  _ “What choices  _ could  _ happen if I tossed the coin?” Slav says. “As many as you can think of.”

“Um,” Sven says. “Well. I guess the head side could be face up. Or the flower side could too. It only has two sides, so…that’s it, right?”

It isn’t, actually. There is also a minuscule probability that it could land on its edge, and even smaller probabilities that it could be destroyed, or that gravity could be turned off and the coin never lands, or a host of other very tiny potentials. A smart individual calculated for  _ every  _ possibility, even the most unlikely. 

But for the purposes of the exercise, two is enough, especially since two is the standard accepted answer in most textbooks and theories…even if it is wrong.  _ Small minds, small ideas.  _

“Two possible outcomes means a fifty percent probability that it will land with the head up, and a fifty percent probability that it lands flower up,” Slav explains. “So you could guess that it will land head’s up, and half the time, you will be right, yes?”

The numbers still seem to be throwing him, but Sven nods along anyway. “Okay. ‘Cause I’m either right, or I’m wrong. ‘Cause there are only two things it could be.”

The statement  _ completely  _ lacks precision in a way that makes Slav’s spine itch, but he fights hard to restrain himself. If he can train this one right at least  _ one  _ person on this ship will understand the importance of probability.

“Yes,” Slav agrees, as much as it hurts. “But right now, I haven’t flipped the coin yet. So what does that mean?”

“Um…it could still be head, or flower? ‘Cause it hasn’t happened yet.”

_ “Precisely,”  _ Slav says, jabbing with his upper arm again.  _ Now  _ they are getting somewhere. “That means  _ both  _ chances could happen. They are both  _ potential  _ truths. Neither possibility has collapsed yet.” 

Sven mouths the word ‘collapsed,’ carefully. “Okay? So?”

“So now we find out which probability is  _ actually  _ the truth,” Slav says, tossing the coin. It flips through the air and lands with a bounce and a clatter on the metal floor of the hangar. 

Sven scrambles after it and throws himself on hands and knees to get a good look at the results, and grins widely up at Slav. “It’s heads! I win!”

“Congratulations,” Slav says dryly. “Heads has become the actual truth. The possibility that the flower could arrive face up has collapsed in this reality and can no longer exist.” 

“In this reality?” Sven repeats, blinking, before picking up the coin and turning it over in his hands curiously.

“Yes,” Slav says. “There is another world alongside this one, similar but unseen by us. When I explained all of this to you in that world, I flipped the coin, and the flower arrived face-up. That is another reality. In  _ that  _ reality, the possibility that heads arrives face-up has collapsed and can no longer exist. Our two realities have diverged at this moment.”

Sven’s brow furrows as he tries to process that. “There’s another me right here?”

“Most likely,” Slav agrees. 

“Can I talk to him and tell him I got heads even though he got flower?”

“No,” Slav says. “Travel between realities is largely theoretical at worst and extremely complicated, time consuming, and a heavy cost on resources at best. Perhaps one day, but not today.” 

Sven pouts at that.

“We are getting off track,” Slav says. “The point is, there were two possibilities for that coin, up until the event happened. Now in this reality for that single toss, the choices are gone, and only one actuality is left.” 

“I could do it again,” Sven says, and tosses the coin clumsily. It rolls on its side for a moment before bouncing into Slav’s tail and collapsing, flower-side up.

“You could, and did,” Slav observes, somewhat dryly, “but that was a new toss with new probabilities. The potential outcomes are still the same, but not the instance.”

“It’s still head or flower.”

“Yes,” Slav says, exasperated, “but a different  _ case  _ of head and flower.”

“Did I just make another reality with another me?”

“You didn’t  _ make it— _ oh, never mind.” Small minds, small ideas. Slav is frankly impressed the child has picked up as much as he did. 

“The  _ point  _ is that coins are simple situations with limited outcomes—“  _ in this example, anyway,  _ “—but life in this and other realities is far more complex. I calculate potential odds for things that happen, and I use them to make decisions. So when I explained all the  _ potential  _ dangers of your rescue, I wasn’t telling you  _ the  _ truth. Just a  _ possible  _ truth, in this reality, based on factors up until that point. Those potential truths have now collapsed, because the incident is finished, and other potentials have become impossible in this reality.”

Sven muses over that thoughtfully as he plays with the coin, tossing it over his head and watching it clatter to the metal flooring of the hanger. After sixteen cases of ‘heads’ and fifteen of ‘flower,’ comfortably statistically accurate, Sven finally says, “I don’t care about probabilities.”

Slav bristles at that. 

“I don’t care if they were just  _ maybe  _ truths,” Sven continues, as he flips the coin again. “You still told me. You didn’t  _ lie.  _ They were scary, but you didn’t act like I’m a stupid kid. The Alteans do that—they pretend we’re too dumb to understand. And Michela’s nice, but she lied too, ‘cause she thought she should make it less scary. I didn’t like that. I’m not a baby. I want to  _ know.”  _

Slav relaxes a little. That, he certainly can understand. “Is that what you told the other Earthlings, then?”

Sven bites his lip. “No,” he says after a moment, looking a little ashamed. “They were scared already. I told them the lie. That’s what they wanted.” 

More stubbornly, he adds, “But I want to  _ know.  _ And you’re the only one that didn’t lie. About the rescue, or…” he swallows. “Or about mother and father.”

He sniffles suddenly, and rubs an arm in front of his eyes, and Slav is hit with the unexpected realization that the child is about to start  _ crying.  _ He has no idea what to do in this instance. He supposes the child has every right to be upset about his progenitors dying, and logically he knows that people generally prefer some kind of comfort when in emotional distress, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what that entails. Probabilities don’t cover  _ this.  _

“I will not ever offer an impossible probability,” Slav finally offers uncomfortably. That’s what the child had wanted, right? Someone who didn’t lie? 

“I still miss them,” Sven says, sniffling again. 

Drat. That hadn’t worked at all. 

“D’you…d’you think there’s one of those other worlds where maybe they got to escape too?” Sven asks softly. He stares up at Slav with watery eyes. 

Slav has a feeling this may be something of a trick question, but he racks his brain anyway to calculate the probabilities—and hopefully, to find one that isn’t impossible. “There is a seven percent chance of it,” he offers finally. “In some realities.”

“I wish it was  _ this  _ one,” Sven whimpers. 

This is getting more uncomfortable by the moment. Slav tries to calculate some sort of exit strategy, but children are impossible to account all possibilities for. 

He is actually beginning to seriously consider the twenty-five percent chance of success hiding in the stealth ship until Sven departs, when rescue blessedly arrives, screeching his name as loudly as she can. “ _ Slav!  _ Are you making that poor hatchling  _ cry?”  _

Both Slav and Sven jump as Michela approaches. She’s fuming, and her teeth are bared in an expression of irritation, although Slav knows her habits enough to understand by now this isn’t aggression. Mostly. 

“What did you  _ do?”  _ she snaps as she finally reaches them, before kneeling down next to Sven. “Hush now, little hatchling. Don’t cry. Slav’s an arrogant crazy jerk, that’s just how he is. He probably didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” 

She isn’t wrong, so Slav ignores the commentary on his personality. Mostly because he doesn’t care what she thinks of him one way or another. 

Sven shakes his head. “No, he didn’t do anything bad,” the child hiccups. “He was telling me all about probabilities and other worlds and things. I liked that. But then I remembered mother and father again, and…”

“Oh, poor hatchling,” Michela croons, putting her arms around the child and holding him tight. The child responds to this curious grapple by clinging tightly back, which Slav can only mark up to the social mammal touch-oriented biology Earthlings reportedly have. “I’m so sorry, little one. I wish we could have rescued them, too. But let’s go back to the others now, yes? This place is too dangerous for a youngling like you.” 

“I just wanted to see the ships,” Sven mumbles into her shoulder. 

“Perhaps we can come back another day,” Michela says, placating. “For now, I think it’s time to go.” 

“Alright,” Sven agrees, still sniffling a little. Michela releases him, and he takes a step back, waving to Slav. “Bye. Thanks for telling me about things.” 

But Slav is a little surprised to realize that what the child really means is  _ thank you for not lying.  _

Michela pats him on the head fondly, and then turns to Slav. _ “Really?”  _ she hisses under her breath in Schilese.  _ “Probabilities? Realities? The poor hatchling’s suffered an awful trauma and you want to confuse him even further?”  _

Slav both understands and speaks Schilese, but when he answers, it’s in common. “He wanted to know,” he says, blunt and to the point. 

Behind Michela, Sven’s eyes are still watery, but Slav swears he catches the tiniest twitch of a relieved smile on the child’s face at the words. It makes Slav feel inexplicably satisfied, like he’s just calculated the end result of a particularly complex probability and deduced the correct answer. 

“Now I must get back to work,” Slav says. “I have been delayed significantly with this conversation, and my chances of failing to complete my assigned task today have risen to thirty five percent. I must increase my efficiency if I wish to be done this evening.” And he turns his back on the pair to clamber back up on the stealth ship’s wings, and burrow his way back into the mechanics, once again two arms deep. When he withdraws again ten doboshes later, the two are gone. 

Slav enjoys the rest of the afternoon busily improving on the outdated systems of the Guns of Gamara’s ships, preparing for installations to outfit them with for the next day. He does finish his task on time, within the estimated margins he had originally planned on. That evening it’s with great satisfaction that he prepares for sleep, changing into more comfortable clothing and emptying his pockets in his personal room.

It’s only then the he realizes Sven still has his Altean coin. The child had never returned it after repeating the exercise. 

“Unpredictable nuisances,” Slav mutters, as he curls up tightly in his bunk for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Slav is not wrong often, but when he  _ is,  _ he always learns from his mistakes. So this time he calculates for the new parameters this reality has put in front of him. As such he is  _ not  _ surprised when Sven shows up again one spicolian movement later, while he’s in the middle of his lab, assembling parts for new defense upgrades. 

“Here,” Sven says, pushing the Altean coin across the lab table towards Slav and his projects. “I forgot to give that back. I’m sorry.”

Slav snatches up the coin with his top right hand, while both middle pairs of arms continue to strip wires and bore holes into the framework of his latest project. “How did you get in here? My lab is private.” 

“I asked one of the gun people how to find it,” Sven says. “They laughed and then they said you were a quiznaking crazy bastard and I should go play instead. But I said they were mean and didn’t understand probabilities good, and they looked at me kind of funny and then let me come in.” He frowns. “I think ‘bastard’ is a bad word.” 

“So is ‘quiznak,’” Slav says absently. 

“Michela will be mad if I use those words,” Sven says, frowning. “How come you’re telling me?”

“Because I don’t care,” Slav answers. “I have more important things to deal with than the social taboos arbitrarily attached to certain popular vocabulary words.”

“Not even if they use bad words like that to talk about you?”

“No.” 

“Well  _ I  _ think it was mean of them,” Sven says, frowning. 

Slav stares across at him in irritation.  _ “Why  _ are you here?”

“To give you your stuff back,” Sven says. “Stealing is bad. How are you  _ doing  _ that?” 

He’s watching Slav’s arms with rapt fascination. Slav glances down at his second and third pairs, each performing a different task, and then back up. “I am just doing it.”

“But how? You’re not even _looking._ It’s too many things!”

“My brain is designed to compartmentalize multiple types of coordination at once,” Slav says. “I fail to see why this is fascinating. Your task is complete, incidentally. You have returned the coin. You may go.”

But Sven doesn’t go. Instead, he watches curiously, lurking close to the edge of the lab table. After a moment he asks, “What are you doing?”

Slav sighs. Sven doesn’t take the hint and leave, though, and Slav has never been very good at ignoring a question. “Upgrades for the base’s defense systems. In the event of an attack, this will improve the striking power of our laser cannons. We do not have the power or supplies to install a full ion cannon, so this will have to suffice.”

Sven stares. “That little box will do that?”

“This is only a part of the project,” Slav says, irritated. “I must make many upgrades to many pieces of each cannon.”

Sven scoots around the table to get closer, trying to get a better look at the wires. “And then they’ll shoot Alteans?”

“If Alteans come here and manage to find us even with my gravity generator,” Slav says. “Then yes.”

Sven seems to consider this very carefully, before he finally says, “Good.”

Slav can’t help but eye the child sideways at the surprising amount of vindictiveness in his little voice. He doesn’t say anything, but Sven must catch the look, because he says, “They were bad. And  _ mean.  _ They would keep talking about peace but they didn’t mean it. And they killed mother and father.”

Slav waits for the inevitable tears at the mention of his progenitors, but Sven doesn’t cry today. He appears to be too angry for that. 

Slav isn’t entirely sure if this is a good thing or not. On the one hand, he’s relieved, since he hasn’t ascertained any better way to deal with sobbing children. On the other, it only makes Sven even more unpredictable than before, and that is simply irritating.

“They won’t get past these defenses, when I am done with them,” Slav offers finally. 

“Can I help?” Sven asks, a little more cheerfully. He scoots even closer and half climbs onto the table, doing his best to get a better view of the proceedings.

Slav takes a step back and stares at him. “Are you an engineer?”

“Um…”

“Do you have an advanced understanding of weapons design, theoretical physics, or mechanics? Do you have experience with handling explosives or toxic chemicals and materials?”

“What?”

“Have you ever built anything in what I can only assume is eight decafeebs of life, based on your stature and lack of maturity?”

“I’m nine decafeebs!” Sven says, indignant. “And I can be smart if you show me how.”

Slav would like nothing better than to pitch him out the door. He keeps getting underfoot, and he is a distraction at best. But although Sven has proven to be unpredictable in most counts, Slav is already starting to realize that he does have one common factor in all cases: he is stubborn, and getting rid of him won’t be easy.

Besides, the child  _ did  _ have a point. If he’s going to insist on hanging around, Slav can at least control his education. 

“How is an Earthling’s ability to differentiate terahertz frequencies?” Slav asks.

Sven blinks. “Huh?”

“Color,” Slav simplifies. “Can you see in a range of color?”

“Yeah,” Sven says. “What does that have to do with cannons?”

“Power crystals,” Slav answers. He darts across the room and drags over several crates of supplies, which he stacks near the table. “Sit. I will not have you getting in the way.” Sven clambers up on the crates and sits, bemused, and Slav darts across the lab again, returning with another large crate and several smaller bins, which he ranges across the table. 

“Power crystals,” Slav repeats, pulling the first crystal out of the large box. “These were collected in a raid just yesterday on Altean ships. They are extremely efficient for powering weaponry, consoles, machines, and day to day items like lights. You will sort them by color and size in these bins, and the Guns of Gamara will be able to use them for power all over the ship.” 

It’s normally a job that Slav would complete himself, but he hasn’t had a chance to address it yet. It will likely take Sven four times as long, with only one set of hands. But it’s a simple enough job that even an Earthling child could handle it.

Not that he won’t be reviewing Sven’s work  _ extremely  _ thoroughly, of course.

Sven frowns. “That’s not helping with your cannons. I want to help fight the Alteans.”

“It will be,” Slav says, exasperated. “Once I complete the upgrades on the structures, they must be powered. I will need larger red crystals for the power necessary to fuel them.” 

Sven cocks his head at this, and then starts digging through the box of crystals. After a moment he finally pulls a large red crystal as big as both of his fists out of the crate, triumphant. “Like this one?”

“Yes,” Slav answers, and Sven very carefully sets it aside in one of the bins, clearly pleased with himself. “But be sure to sort the rest, too. There is an eight-five percent certainty I will use them in other projects.” 

“Okay,” Sven says. He seems satisfied with having a job to do, now that he knows it will help combat the Alteans. He settles in to his task, picking out different colored crystals and sorting them into the bins. It holds his focus, and Slav, relieved at the quiet, finally returns to his own work.

“What’s a gravity generator?”

Slav doesn’t quite snap the component he’s working with in his topmost hands, but it’s a near thing. 

The rest of the quintent is like that, unfortunately. Sven sorts through his crystals with dedication, and while he does, he asks Slav questions. It takes nearly a varga to even begin to explain the gravity generator, and Slav is fairly certain Sven didn’t understand the majority of it. It irks Slav to have one of his greatest accomplishments be reduced down to ‘a machine that makes you invisible;’ there is an elegance to the work that is lost with such a simplified explanation. 

He’s actually relieved when Michela finally tracks her missing charge down in Slav’s lab. He normally detests visitors when he’s working, and he likes to control his workspace, without others messing around with his carefully organized tools and supplies. But for once she’s a welcome sight as she barges her way into the room.

_ “There  _ you are, hatchling,” Michela says. “I worried you’d gotten lost or hurt somewhere.”

“I’m fine,” Sven says. “I’ve been helping Slav. Look!” He struggles to hold up one of the now full bins of shimmering clear crystals, which are quite heavy. “I just finished.”

Michela looks incredulous, and stares first at Sven, and then at Slav. “You put him to work?”

“I wanted to help,” Sven says, pouting. “Slav’s fixing the cannons to fight Alteans. I helped find the crystals he’s gonna use for them.”

“That is an accurate summary,” Slav agrees, as he carefully attaches the head of a crystal amplifier port to one of the wires he’s just finished stripping. 

Michela continues to stare.  _ “You,” _ she says slowly, “let him help.”

“He would not go away,” Slav complains. “He may as well be productive if he’s going to be here.” 

Michela stares at him as though he’s a statistical impossibility, but finally shakes her head. “He’s not crying, so I’ll consider it an improvement. Come, hatchling, let’s leave Slav to work. Dinner is almost ready for you and your friends.”

“Oh!” Sven seems surprised. “I didn’t realize. How long have I been here?”

“Three vargas, twenty-two doboshes, and thirty-four ticks,” Slav says, irritable. 

“Which means you’re probably good and hungry, hatchling,” Michela says, glaring at Slav. “So let’s go get dinner, yes?”

“Okay,” Sven agrees. “Bye, Slav! Thanks for letting me help!” 

Slav merely grumbles in response as they leave.  _ Finally,  _ it is quiet. He can feel his nerves settling as peace finally sets in, and returns to work with more focus than he’s had for the last three vargas and twenty-three doboshes. 

He does manage to complete his tasks for the day, even with the setbacks raising his chances for failure. As he cleans up his lab for the night, his last task is to review Sven’s sorting. He is pleasantly surprised to find the child had done an adequate job. There are a few crystals with terahertz frequencies so close together the child must not have been able to distinguish them, and he makes a mental note on the limits of Earthling vision and perception. But approximately ninety-eight percent of the crystal stock has been properly sorted according to size and color. 

“Perhaps he has some use, at least,” Slav mutters to himself, as he stores away the sorted crystals and closes his lab up for the evening.

* * *

 

Life continues in the same vein for the following feebs. 

Slav is constantly busy throughout all of them. Often, he works on upgrades and improvements around the base. And as spicolian movements start to pass, Jaxxor gradually phases Slav back into missions as well—first by getting his input on statistics for strategies, and eventually including him in smaller recon missions with only one or two other agents. 

But despite his many duties, no matter how busy he is, Sven continues to show up on a regular basis to bother him.

It’s not guaranteed, and it isn’t every day. But the more time passes, the more data Slav has to work with, and the more he can begin to calculate for averages and patterns. Eventually he estimates approximately a twenty-five percent chance on any given day that Sven will show up to pester him. The probability tends to increase shortly after missions, as Slav will sometimes be away from the base for quintents or even entire movements at a time. He can only imagine the child is trying to make up for lost time bothering him.

He’s frankly a little surprised that Sven continues to show up at all. They’ve started to have some progress offloading the Earthling children in colonies around the galaxies. At least one quarter of the children—mostly the younger ones who need more regular care than the Guns of Gamara can really afford to give—have been hidden away in homes across the planets of their allies. Sven has become enough of a troublemaker with his wandering and exploring in the base that it would seem ideal to hand him off to other caretakers, but he hasn’t disappeared yet. It’s bothersome. 

Fortunately, as time passes, Slav at least manages to figure out ways to control Sven’s pestering. It’s impossible to get rid of him—he’s like a bad parasite. But he can be put to work, and seems willing enough to do so. Slav teaches him how to  _ properly  _ strip and coil wires, install power crystals, charge power cells for the Guns of Gamara’s titular weaponry, and organize his lab’s supplies, among other things. That at least frees up Slav’s time from mundane tasks to actually perform upgrades and calculate strategies. 

And since the child is forever full of questions, Slav continues to use it as an opportunity to properly educate him, too. The questions are often irritatingly simple—“What are stars made of?” or “How do spaceships fly?”—but Slav discovers that if he doesn’t answer them accurately, somebody else will answer the same question, and do so  _ incorrectly.  _ He will never forgive the idiot Gun agent that explained the medical biotech lab and infirmary as a ‘space hospital,’ as Sven simply refuses to give up the term now, no matter  _ how  _ many times Slav corrects him. And as much as the child irritates him, it irritates him even further that somebody could be teaching him  _ inaccurate and highly non-factual information.  _

Once committed to his task, one of the first topics Slav focuses on are mathematics and percentages, in order to expand upon the importance of probabilities. The Guns of Gamara’s education for its Earthling children has been somewhat limited in formal mathematics and sciences; they have mostly focused on speaking, reading and writing intergalactic common. And Alteans, unsurprisingly, do not bother teaching their Earthling slaves anything at all, seeing as they are destined for the  _ hoktril  _ the moment their bodies have matured enough for the installation. 

But while Sven has absolutely no foundation in mathematics, he turns out to be a bright pupil, and picks up on the basics of arithmetic, fractions and percentages fairly quickly. Slav is grudgingly impressed; the child might be a nuisance, but at least he is an intelligent one. 

Once he understands the abstract concept of numbers and percentages, communicating with him at least becomes marginally easier. That, at least, is something of a relief. 

“You have a mission tomorrow?” Sven asks brightly. 

“Yes,” Slav says, two arm sets deep into the mechanics of a Gun fighter ship. “Give me the lightwell wrench.”

Sven absently hands the tool off to Slav’s lowest right arm, and Slav passes it up to his frontmost set of arms. “Will it be easy? You’ll be okay, right?”

“I estimate a thirty-three point three seven percent chance of failure,” Slav says, as he withdraws from the fighter ship’s panel, pulling a burned out bit of thermal pipe with him.

Sven furrows his brow at this for a moment, thinking hard. “Okay, so that’s a seventy percent chance of success, right?”

“Sixty-six point six three percent,” Slav corrects in exasperation, “but that is what I  _ just said,  _ there is no need to repeat it.”

“But my way sounds better,” Sven says, stubborn.

“It is mathematically the  _ same  _ no matter how it is worded!”

“Yeah, but success  _ sounds  _ better,” Sven insists. 

Slav finds the notion ridiculous. It’s the same probability, no matter how it is worded, whether or not it ‘sounds’ better. 

But the longer Sven spends time bothering him, and the more he understands about percentages, the more he continues to insist on portraying the exact same percentages in ways that ‘sound better.’ Sven continues to repeat Slav’s calculations in the inverse, much to his irritation, especially if the so called ‘positive’ version is a much higher mathematical value. Slav finds it a baffling habit, but eventually begins reporting things to Sven in terms of success, rather than failure, just to save time. The less time he spends rewording probabilities, the more time he can spend  _ acting  _ on them. 

But what he truly doesn’t manage to predict, to his own surprise, is the effect the habit has elsewhere. 

Because when he is on missions, he finds, to his very great shock, that reporting things in terms of success actually statistically  _ improves  _ Gun agents’ chances for victories. Telling agents they have a seventy percent chance of success with a given maneuver, rather than a thirty percent chance of failure, seems to create some sort of encouragement for that success. The math is  _ exactly  _ the same, but the presentation creates a notable increase that Slav can observe in positive reactions and in mission victories. The psychological ramifications are intriguing—the agents succeed because they are presented with a chance for success, and presumably, believe they  _ can.  _

It’s a frankly bewildering realization, for Slav. But there’s enough quantifiable evidence for him to be convinced that the tactic has merit—enough that it statistically increases success chances still further. Slav simply cannot argue with mathematics and quantifiable patterns.

He does wonder how the Earthling child made such a far-reaching deduction all on his own, though. Perhaps Earthling instincts are more valuable than he’d ever first imagined. 

He’s marginally more agreeable to Sven’s visits after that. The child had proven he had something to offer if Slav is observant, enough to justify the lost time in permitting him to stick around. Besides, Sven’s presence is, by now, statistically average, and no longer enough of an unpredictable outlier that it makes Slav’s spine itch with irritation. 

Even the questions are less offensive than they used to be. Not that Sven ever stops asking them—there may be a reality in which he runs out of questions, but Slav is one hundred percent positive it’s not this one. But his questions are earnest, and he learns quickly, and he doesn’t ask the same thing twice. Slav finds he doesn’t mind wasting time to answer them as much as he did, even if the questions are inane or silly—probably because Sven has at least learned to be productive while asking them. 

And then again, some of the questions aren’t ridiculous at all. And some of them, Slav finds, are actually very difficult to answer. 

“Could you tell me about Earth?”

Sven’s voice is uncharacteristically small and subdued when he asks, and Slav’s ears prick up in surprise. Sven has been quiet all morning—he’d joined Slav for some routine checks on the databases, but he’s barely said a word in the varga he’s followed Slav around for. 

Even a few feebs ago, Slav would have welcomed the silence. Now, it’s so out of pattern for Sven that Slav finds it irritable. And with that tone, he is almost certain something is wrong. 

“Where did this question come from?” Slav asks.

“Serrata was talking about getting to go back home on her furlough to see her dad,” Sven says. “She was telling me about her planet and the special festivals and the city. I want to see things like that. Earth must have done things like that. But I don’t know any of the stories or the holidays or the places…” He frowns.

“I would think you would know more of Earth than I would,” Slav says, raising an eyebrow. “You are the Earthling.”

“Um…” Sven swallows. “Mother and father and most of the grown up Earthlings didn’t really know anything. And they couldn’t really…tell stories, anyway. I don’t know much. But you know everything, so I thought maybe you did?”

“I do not know  _ everything,”  _ Slav corrects. “That is statistically impossible. Only  _ most  _ things.” 

“But not things about Earth?” Sven says, hope fading from his expression. 

“Very little,” Slav admits. “I know base statistics and the approximate history of when Earth was captured. Statistics after that are easier to come by. But most of the information pre-conquering was guarded highly by the Alteans. Earthlings are considered prize non-cogs to them.” 

Sven looks deeply unhappy about that. “But you steal stuff about stuff from the Alteans, don't you?" He asks. "That's your job, isn't it? Fighting them and taking their stuff.”

"That's a very simplified description of only one of my many duties for the Guns of Gamara," Slav says, but at Sven's frown he adds, "But yes, essentially.”

"Could you steal stuff about Earth?" Sven asks. “You said the Alteans guarded that information. They had to have written things down about Earth before they took us all away from it, right? Could you steal it?”

Slav raises his topmost pairs of hands in exasperation. "It is hardly that simple," he says. "There is a ninety-five percent certainty that the Alteans recorded information about your ancestral world, but that is all historical data and of little use to the Alteans now. It isn't as though they care about Earthling cultural data when they have the  _ hoktril _ to control their population of slaves, and have eradicated most Earthling culture in their own slave populace. Culture is free will, and the Alteans cannot abide that.”

He shrugs. “Even if they did store that information, the chances that it is stored in the same servers as those the Guns of Gamara target are not high. I estimate there is only a twenty-five to thirty-five percent chance of overlap. More likely the information is backed up in a database at the center of the Altean Empire and we would never get our hands on it."

Sven's expression falls the more Slav talks, and eventually he stares at the floor, shoulders slumped and hunched in on himself. "Oh," he says quietly. His voice sounds oddly flat. "Okay."

Slav doesn't claim to be an expert on emotions in general, much less Earthling ones, but Sven does not sound happy. For some reason, that annoys him. Sven’s mood is, on average, at the very least content;  _ this  _ is an unpredictable outlier, and he dislikes it immediately. 

He crosses all four of his arm-pairs, and says in exasperation, "Fine. I will write a program that will search the databases when we raid Altean servers for other spy missions. If it finds any Earth data, it will download it. But I do not advise you to expect much! There is only perhaps a ten percent chance at best there will be any real data of interest.”

Sven's eyes light up. "That's fine! That's okay! Just want to know things. Thanks, Slav!" He hurls himself forward, and crashes into Slav, wrapping his arms just under Slav's third set. All four sets of Slav’s arms go wide in counterbalance, although Sven is so small he doesn't push Slav back very far.

"What are you doing?" Slav asks after a moment, bewildered, staring down at him.

"It's a hug," Sven says. "You give them to friends and to family. You don't know? I thought you were smart.”

"I have a genius intellect," Slav says with a disapproving sniff.  _ "This _ is ridiculous.”

"You're ridiculous," Sven says, but there’s much more cheer in his voice than before. ”You should be good at hugging, you have so many arms." He lets go of the strange and highly uncomfortable affectionate grapple, and Slav scowls as he recrosses all of his arms. "Thanks for helping me find out about Earth, Slav. I think you're nice even if everyone else thinks you're annoying.”

Slav has no idea what to say to that, but he does find himself strangely satisfied with Sven’s declaration. He cares little about what the other Gun agents think of him, but he finds he actually does mind, just a little, Sven’s opinion. Perhaps it is merely due to the amount of time he’s invested in Sven’s education, or perhaps it is because he’s beginning to not mind the child’s company. Regardless, he finds himself quite pleased that Sven thinks highly of him.

He does, as promised, write the program to search and copy any Earth related files during future missions. Whenever he has an opportunity that does not have a high probability of putting the true mission in jeopardy, he uses it. 

The results are, as predicted, not terribly promising. There are only bits and pieces of data here and there—offhand mentions of conquered cities or countries, records of early captive Earthlings praying to deities or continuing traditions, before the  _ hoktril  _ eradicated most of them. Once he finds a photo of a wide-open golden-brown grassland, with large catlike creatures called ‘lions’ in prominence; the Alteans had been stunned to find Earth had such creatures as well. 

It’s not much, but everything he finds, he dutifully shares with Sven. The bits and pieces of data stir no memories and mean virtually nothing to the Earthling, even though they are the shattered remains of his culture. Sven eats up each and every bit of information anyway. Slav makes him copies of everything and downloads it all onto a modified wrist computer, so that Sven can keep it with him. 

Slav even suggests recording the Earthling language. “Begin a new dataset,” he says. “Then there will be records for free Earthlings in the future.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Sven says. “If I teach it to you, can you help me record it?”

“Yes,” Slav says. “I am fluent in a wide variety of languages. I can transcribe it into a database easily if you can introduce me to the basics of the language.” 

Sven is enthusiastic about the idea then—both because he can teach Slav something, which seems to excite him, and because he can contribute to Earthling records in some way. He spends the following spicolian movements happily teaching Slav his native tongue. 

Slav, for his part, is merely satisfied that they will finally have an understanding of the language, enough to rescue future Earthling slaves without further translation issues. He picks up on the tongue easily—its grammar is similar to Terchik, with a few variations—and dutifully records everything with precision into Sven’s little dataset.

It’s the first time in a very long time that Slav has devoted any effort or dedication to a project that isn’t his, or strictly for the benefit of the Guns of Gamara. Records of Earthlings will have some practicality in the future when they make more advancements against the Alteans. But for now, it’s purely and unquestionably personal, and largely for Sven’s benefit, and Sven’s alone. 

There are probably far more beneficial and efficient uses of Slav’s time. But it keeps Sven happy, and Slav finds that he doesn’t mind so much. 

* * *

 

Movements turn into feebs, and before Slav realizes it, an entire decafeeb has passed since that day they’d gone on a supply raid and ended up with forty-one Earthling children. 

By now, three quarters of the children have been carefully secreted away into homes that can properly care for them. The remaining eleven children are mostly the older ones, the ones that had already begun to undergo indoctrination for the  _ hoktril.  _ These ones can’t be given to proper caretakers until they have been through enough rehabilitation that they are capable of making their own decisions again, and understand they are safe. Otherwise, there is a very real threat that the children will call for Altean help and bring death down on their own caretakers, not understanding the danger. 

It can take decafeebs for rescued  _ hoktril  _ slaves to come to terms with their own control again. The Guns of Gamara have a rehabilitation program in place for those people, at a separate base more capable of handling their needs. Those children will probably be moved to it eventually, if their current rehabilitation proves inefficient, once that location finishes preparing to accommodate Earthling young. 

The single exception is Sven. Sven has never displayed any characteristics of indoctrination; Slav honestly wonders if it even  _ is  _ a possibility, with a personality as headstrong as Sven’s. But Sven remains anyway. He’s had multiple opportunities to go live with families that would probably be safer and kinder for him than a Gamara base, but he always refuses.

“I want to help,” is always his answer, when anyone asks. 

And he does help, usually with his fellow Earthling children. The indoctrinated ones are timid and uneasy, and require constant socialization and care that Earthlings need. Sven is usually more than willing to provide, helping his fellow Earthlings adjust any way he can. 

But Sven becomes more of a fixture around the rest of the Guns of Gamara base as well, and before long he’s on a first-name basis with at least half of the agents. He’s friendly enough with most of them, but continues to fixate in particular on Slav. If Slav isn’t away on missions, Sven will visit him several times a movement to help with little tasks here and there, and ramble about his day. 

Slav has never quite figured out Sven’s fascination, but after a decafeeb, he’s grown used to the little Earthling’s presence. Sven’s well trained with basic tasks at this point, enough that Slav trusts him to handle simple instructions and keeping his lab organized well. He’s even become accustomed to Sven’s chattiness. And the boy continues to learn at an astonishing rate, and is always hungry for more information. Slav doesn’t mind teaching him, as long as he’s willing to learn.

What surprises Slav is that other people notice it, too.

“Where’s your shadow today?” one of the Gun agents, Timonev, asks as Slav passes him in the halls.

That’s perplexing enough as it is—most people don’t bother to interact with him—but it’s a frankly stupid question. Slav glances down at his feet, where his cast shadow currently resides thanks to the crystal-based lighting in the hallways, and then back up to Timonev with a flat stare.

Timonev rolls his slit-pupil eyes. “Not your  _ actual  _ shadow. I meant the Earthling kid. Sven.”

“I am hardly his minder,” Slav says, although Sven has actually been absent for three quintents in a row, which is a statistical anomaly for him at this point. He may have wondered the same thing himself. 

“No, but he follows you everywhere like a shadow,” Timonev says. “Or a little brother, maybe? Nephew? Kid?”

“He only spends approximately twenty-five percent of his time around me on average during my returns on missions,” Slav responds. Internally, he finds the comparison to a shadow inane. Sven certainly doesn't copy him exactly; if anything he is frustratingly independent. 

Perhaps the family comparison is more accurate, although Slav wouldn't really know. He has at least ten litter-mates, many of whom probably have a plethora of their own offspring by now, but he never bothered to interact with any of them in a meaningful way. They were all content to live out their lives on his homeworld. He wasn’t. 

Timonev rolls his eyes again. “Never mind. I figured the kid loosened you up a little, but you’re still the same guy as always.” 

Slav has no idea what that observation is supposed to mean, but Timonev’s other observation is more concerning. Where _has_ Sven been for the past three quintents? It is unusual for him to be absent for so long—a statistical anomaly that Slav _must_ get to the bottom of, now that his attention has been drawn to it.

So for the first time in over a decafeeb, he heads for the children’s quarters.

The ‘children’s quarters’ are really just a set of converted barracks specifically to house the young Earthlings. The Gun agents had chosen a more out of the way set of rooms, to ensure the children didn’t accidentally wander into anything dangerous…not that such a precaution has ever stopped at least  _ one  _ of their number before. Food is delivered from the mess hall and a small storage room has been turned into a communal area for exercise and social play. The Guns of Gamara have done what they can for proper mental stimulation and physical care, and the area is more friendly and inviting than standard barracks might appear, with brighter colors and a small smattering of toys. 

But after having interacted with Sven for over a decafeeb, the entire place seems woefully barren. Earthling young need more than just proper nutrients and places devoid of danger for successful development, Slav is coming to realize. It’s for the best that most of them have been put elsewhere. 

Even so, the thought of Sven finally being sent to one of those safe homes is strangely…displeasing. Slav has grown accustomed to his presence. He thinks he might actually be disappointed, in the likelihood that Sven were to leave.

_ Which is still a highly likely probability,  _ Slav reminds himself.  _ They will all go away eventually. If you are getting attached, you had best stop now.  _

Still, that is a thought for a future date. For  _ now,  _ Slav is more concerned with Sven’s absence. He finds the Gun agent on duty with the children today—Serrata, the Kerritan that had originally accompanied him in recovering the Earthling young in the first place.

“Slav?” she asks, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

Her surprise is, well,  _ not  _ surprising. Slav has never actually bothered to come here before. He doesn’t waste time getting down to business now that he’s here, though. “I have not seen Sven in three quintents. That is statistically abnormal for him. Is something preventing his usual habits?”

Serrata stares at him for a moment. Then, to Slav’s surprise, she breaks into an incredulous grin. “Slav, are you  _ worried  _ about him?” 

“What?”

“You  _ are,” _ Serrata says, grin growing wider. “You’re worried about something that’s not numbers or  _ you.  _ I never thought I’d live to see the day!” 

If she had been paying attention, she might have noticed that he  _ was  _ concerned about numbers—had she not listened to the part about statistical abnormalities? Granted, they are values directly relating to Sven, but  _ still.  _

Slav grumbles, but then says, “Well? Do you have a reasonable answer?”

Serrata shakes her head, but it seems to be in surprise more than a negative indication. “He’s fine, Slav. They all are. They’re just a little sick.”

“A  _ little sick?”  _ That’s hardly fine! “How is one ‘a little’ sick? That doesn’t make  _ sense.” _

Serrata rolls her eyes. “Griven brought back something from a mission. We think it’s veris flu. Most of us have been vaccinated for that or had it already, so we didn’t notice until the kids started coming down with it. I guess they hadn’t been exposed.”

That would make sense. Alteans were very careful with their slaves. An epidemic through those populations could cost weeks of work and possibly the lives of valuable labor sources. 

Still…”Veris flu has approximately a five percent mortality rate in most adult organisms,” Slav says. “That increases to thirteen percent with young organisms. That is not ‘a little sick’!”

“Slav,  _ relax,” _ Serrata says. “They’re  _ fine.  _ We’ve already administered medication. The worst of it was yesterday—most of them are doing better today, but we’re keeping them here for a movement or so to make sure they won’t spread anything. They’re miserable and bored, but they definitely aren’t going to  _ die.”  _

“But thirteen  _ percent!” _ Slav insists, anxious. That is a very high number for failure!

_ But the chance for success is much higher, _ he notes. Sven would  _ insist  _ on it being presented as a success. Eighty-seven percent chances of a full recovery is still the same calculation, but…well, perhaps Sven has a point. That  _ does  _ sound better. 

“They’re doing just fine,” Serrata repeats. “I promise. Sven will probably be a raging terror tomorrow—he’ll want to explore the base and we’ll have to tell him no. In a few more quintents he’ll be back on his feet like nothing happened. But if  _ you  _ don’t want to catch it, you should probably go.” 

Slav is not particularly worried about that; his race is immune to most strains of the flu. Still, there is very little he could do to affect the probabilities of Sven’s recovery here. It grates, to have to leave that to people like Serrata, who describe the veris flu as just being ‘a little sick.’ But the Guns of Gamara have been dedicated to preserving these Earthling children for an entire decafeeb, so he supposes he will have to continue to trust them to handle the situation. 

Trust is difficult with no numerical values to back it up. But Slav will just have to try.

“Very well,” Slav agrees. “I will return to my work.”

“Great,” Serrata says. Then she grins again. “I’ll tell Sven you checked in on him. He’ll be happy to hear that you were worried about him.”

Slav doubts that Sven would be happy to hear about his anxieties. He supposes Serrata is actually referring to Slav displaying interest in Sven’s well being and continued survival, which seems to be absolutely fascinating to her, for some reason. He disregards her and turns to leave, mulling over the numbers in his head.

They aren’t quite satisfactory  _ enough,  _ so he detours to his lab instead of heading to the shield upgrades he’d originally been going to work on, before Timonev had interrupted him. There, he pulls up the statistics on Earthling health and all records regarding the veris flu, as well as the base’s requisition records for medication and supplies. 

Half a varga of research actually does support Serrata’s relaxed answers about the Earthling children’s care. Veris flu can be deadly, especially to young organisms. But Earthling statistics on health show they are usually of hardier stock, and highly enduring. While they are susceptible to most illnesses that affect mammals, they are able to weather the vast majority of them with few long lasting effects, even the children. The proper medications had been pulled from the Guns of Gamara infirmary and they should, by Slav’s calculations, have no adverse effects when used in conjunction with Earthling biology. Approximately six quintents will be expected for illness and recovery. 

That is…something of a relief. Slav mentally recalculates the chances for the Earthling young to only a four percent chance of fatality—no, a ninety-six percent chance of full recovery. Yes. That  _ does  _ sound nicer, and the numbers are acceptable. 

Finally satisfied, Slav returns to his work, concerns banished from his mind. Mostly. 

But it’s only when the probability has finally collapsed, when Sven shows up at his lab four quintents later, that he truly does relax. Sven looks as fine as ever, other than perhaps a slight decrease in energy, and asks for a job to do as though he hadn’t disappeared for a full movement. Slav bemusedly gives him more power crystals to sort through, and Sven takes to the job with dedication.

But not before pausing to throw himself at Slav in another one of those affectionate grapples. “Ser said you were worried about me,” Sven says. “I’m okay. Thanks for being worried.”

Slav grumbles, but he’s gotten used to this sort of behavior from Sven by now, and awkwardly puts his third set of arms around the Earthling’s shoulders. He still doesn’t get the point, but it seems to make Sven happy. Probably something to do with their touch-oriented development. “I am…happy to see you are feeling better.”

To his surprise, he actually is  _ happy  _ about that. 

Sven grins, and hops up on his stack of crates to get to work, telling Slav all about the past week of being sick in disgusting detail. Slav listens attentively anyway as he works, and is surprised to find that despite the topic, it’s nice to have that noise in the background again. 

He hadn’t realized just how quiet it was for the past movement until now, or how much he hadn’t liked it.


	4. Chapter 4

Six feebs later, Slav is eighty-five percent positive he is about to die. 

The mission he’s been on for the last movement has gone badly. Of the cell of four Gun agents he’s been a part of, one has already been lost, and a second is wounded. The attempt to recover the data on Altean military interests has failed, and the extraction is going poorly. There’s only a thirty percent chance at best that they will escape successfully.

But they are almost to their ship. Slav is more nimble than the agents he’s partnered with, and leaps back and forth between the halls to hold the enemy’s attention long enough for the other agents—statistically better shots than him—to clear the gladiator sentries away. 

But something goes wrong along the way, an infinitesimally small possibility that becomes a reality. A stray shot hits the airlock panel in the hall, and the gladiators are dragged out into the abyss of space. But the sudden movement throws their shots wide, and Slav takes three direct hits to the torso. 

He thuds against the side of the hallway and collapses to the ground in a world of pain. Two of his left arms snap as he hits, and his head spins. He can feel himself being dragged towards the open airlock, and he can see the wavering trails of blood he leaves behind him with his weakening vision as he does.

A distant part of his brain analyzes the injuries with clinical precision.  _ First shot near digestive tract, internal bleeding inevitable. Second shot close to first heart, not a direct hit but life threatening. Third shot has damaged lower rib cage. Two broken arms—not immediately life threatening but will add to shock. Concussion inevitable. Bruising inevitable. Probability of survival: twenty two percent and dropping quickly.  _

That should be frightening, but Slav is already fading too quickly to care. Thinking is already difficult. Perhaps those numbers had been too high…

_ “Quiznak!”  _

“Get him, hurry!” 

Something grabs him by his topmost arm, and he stops sliding. It hurts, but the pain is enough to jolt him into awareness for a few more ticks, enough to realize one of the Gun agents is hefting him over their shoulder. The other, wounded one activates Slav’s helmet. 

“Get him on the ship! The way’s clear!” 

“Quiznak, he’s a crazy bastard but the Guns can’t afford to lose him. We gotta stop the bleeding!” 

Slav’s awareness begins dropping again. He’s only distantly conscious of being lowered onto a hard surface, and of someone pressing something against one of his wounds.  _ Effort to slow the bleeding,  _ he notes, from very far away.  _ Perhaps nineteen percent… _

But then he slips into the dark and knows nothing more.

When he wakes again, he’s genuinely impressed that he does so at all. His odds of surviving that encounter would have dropped even further the moment he lost consciousness, but he is alive. 

It’s difficult to make accurate observations or calculations, which means he’s been heavily dosed with medications. But he does at least recognize he’s in the Guns of Gamara infirmary, stretched out on one of the beds. Two of his arms are set in splints. There is a bandage around his head, and several others at points all along his torso. 

He’s not comfortable, but he’s fairly certain he’ll live. Probably with a high percentage rate of success, although it’s hard to figure out the exact number at the moment, when his thoughts feel too clouded and slow.

The recovery room in the infirmary is mostly barren, other than the usual medical equipment, but there  _ is  _ one thing that catches Slav’s attention. On the counter next to the bed is a folded piece of paper, standing upright. It’s brightly colored and stands out against the bland metallics and grays of the infirmary. Reaching it is a little tricky when lying down, but he manages to grab it in his topmost right arm, curious.

The front of the folded paper has a drawing of what he can only assume is supposed to be him, based on the length of the figure and the number of what he thinks are arms. The interior has another figure that looks suspiciously like a small Earthling, with a line leading from what Slav can only assume is supposed to be its face, leading to an untidy scrawl in intergalactic common. The letters read,  _ I hope you have a 100 percent probabiletee of getting better!  _ The entire thing is signed at the bottom with only “Sven.” 

Slav stares at the baffling little crafted gift. A get well card? He’s never received one before. It’s a curious little tradition that’s never made any degree of sense to him anyway—there are many things that could alter his probability of surviving, but a piece of decorated paper will have little to no effect on those numbers. The figures are unskillfully drawn, the lettering is terrible, and the incorrect spelling of ‘probability’ is mildly irritating. 

Despite all that, Slav keeps it anyway.

* * *

 

Slav spends a full movement in the infirmary after he wakes, and is banned from missions and most heavy lifting or difficult work for the next two feebs at least. 

It drives him absolutely  _ insane.  _

Slav does not like not doing things. Slav must always be doing  _ something,  _ be it organizing or attending tasks or going on missions. He doesn’t do well with  _ nothing.  _ And while he understands the necessity of banning him from certain physical actions until he can fully recover, the fact that it limits him so severely in actions he can take is simply galling.

Fortunately, or perhaps not, Sven is there to assist. 

Slav learns fairly quickly that Sven had been  _ quite  _ worried about him, once he’d been brought in with potentially life-threatening injuries. He’d bothered Michela regularly to see if Slav would be okay and to ask when he could visit. Once Slav had regained consciousness, Sven is escorted by Michela to the infirmary to visit on a regular basis, and he’s anxious about Slav’s recovery.

“You’re not supposed to get  _ hurt  _ on missions,” Sven complains, during one such visit, kicking his feet on his stool as he sits next to Slav’s infirmary cot. 

“There is always a statistical possibility of injury or death,” Slav reminds him. “You know this. I’ve calculated them before.”

“I know, but it never  _ happened,” _ Sven says. “How come the other Gun guys didn’t keep you from getting hurt? I know nobody really likes you but that’s  _ mean.” _

Slav raises an eyebrow. “They were likely the reason I did not perish from these injuries,” he says. “They were able to get me to the infirmary in time so I could be treated.” 

“I guess they did rush you back to the space hospital quick,” Sven admits. Slav’s eyes narrow at the highly inaccurate term, but he says nothing. “But I don’t like people getting shot on missions. Or hurt. Or that they could die. I don’t want people to die anymore.”

He looks unhappy. Slav has learned to recognize that look—it usually means he is thinking of his deceased parents. 

“I have not died,” Slav says. “I am still alive, and my probability for recovery is almost certain.” 

“They still should’ve protected you better,” Sven mutters, sullen. “I bet I could’ve done a better job.”

“You are ten decafeebs in age, untrained in warfare, and not a Gun agent,” Slav says, raising an eyebrow. “Your chances of survival on that mission would have been less than one percent.” 

Sven huffs at that, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression after. At least it seems to have distracted him from his parents, so Slav lets it go.

But Sven is more persistent once Slav is released from the infirmary. Slav may not be confined to bed, but his injuries aren’t gone yet. With several laser blast wounds and two broken arms, he is supposed to be reducing his physical activity and not straining his body until he’s finished healing. In theory, that means not climbing things, carrying heavy things, or doing anything overly strenuous. 

Sven seems determined to make  _ sure  _ he doesn’t.

Sven has always had an interest in helping around the base, but now he seems  _ determined  _ to be Slav’s assistant for the duration of his recovery, and handle any of the things that Slav technically can’t do. That means he’s around almost constantly, and will rush in to help the moment Slav needs anything carried, pushed or pulled.

It usually means he gets underfoot, as Sven is still not really large enough to handle the crates or large pieces of machinery Slav often works with. Slav is not particularly physically strong himself even when fully healed, but Sven is only ten decafeebs. Even if he has grown a little since they first found him, that still doesn’t make him capable of handling most of the equipment Slav uses. 

Slav suspects Michela may have put the young Earthling up to keeping an eye on him, which is simply irritating. He hardly needs babysitting, much less from a  _ child.  _

But he endures it anyway, and allows Sven to help where he can, mostly because he can see how much it means to him. Sven likes to help, but Slav suspects he had also been quite frightened at the possibility of any of the agents he’s learned to interact with disappearing. Guns of Gamara agents are probably a terrible substitute for actual parental figures, but they are all that Sven has left. A second loss so soon after the first seems like something that would highly traumatize a child. 

These are thoughts Slav would not have even bothered to consider, a decafeeb and a half ago. Children have a baffling effect on psychology and lifestyle, apparently. 

So he lets Sven help, even if it is  _ frequently  _ irritating to do so. 

“I’ll do that for you!” Sven says, reaching for the power cells that are being prepared for the Guns’ titular weapon. 

“I am perfectly capable,” Slav grumbles. “They do not break the weight restrictions.”

“But two of your arms don’t work,” Sven says. “And I’ve got two arms that work still, so I can do it for you.”

“I still have two entire sets of arms that work just  _ fine,”  _ Slav points out, gesturing with his bottom two arm pairs. Though, admittedly, he hates having two different left arms broken at the same time. He’d rather an entire pair, both left and right, be nonfunctional. Hands work as a unit. Two broken left arms means two worthless units for the duration. It’s irritating. 

Sven may not understand the complexities of multi-arm units, but he  _ is  _ more observant than he should be. “You don’t even use those two,” he says, pointing at the lone right arms. “And anyway, you’re slower than usual without all your hands, so I can still help.” 

Slav grumbles under his breath again, but grudgingly must admit that his efficiency rating has dropped by almost half with the loss of two arm pairs. Sven won’t increase production back to one hundred percent efficiency, but it certainly will be better than nothing. “Fine. You may assist.” 

Sven beams at him as he takes the next set of power cells to help with.

Recovery is obnoxiously slow, and Slav still can’t do half of what he’d like while the holes in his torso heal and his arms repair. He does gradually improve, of course, but in the meantime he takes to instructing Sven through some more complicated tasks he isn’t technically permitted to do himself. Sven takes to the tasks fairly well, at least. Although Slav is fairly certain Michela intends to murder him after learning he’d instructed the Earthling child on the basics of simple explosives. 

Sven had enjoyed it, at least. Perhaps that  _ almost  _ made her fury worth the risk of being put back into the infirmary for another two movements. 

* * *

 

Slav does, eventually, recover in full, and return to regular duties and missions. Sven is clearly uneasy about the first one, but after Slav returns without a scratch on him, he seems to return to his usual good cheer. Mostly.

But there is a day four feebs after Slav’s initial injury when Sven appears in his lab to assist like usual, only it  _ isn’t  _ like usual. Slav immediately notices the solemn way Sven carries himself, and the dejected look on his face. He settles himself down quietly at the lab table where he usually picks up his assigned tasks for today, but stares at the coils of wire he’s supposed to be detangling and storing properly like he barely sees them. 

This is  _ definitely  _ not typical for Sven, and it stands out enough that Slav actually pauses in his own work. “What is wrong?” he finally asks. He’s since learned that Sven needs to talk when he is upset, but prompting him to begin usually makes the situation more efficient than waiting for Sven to work his way to it himself.

“We’ve been here for two decafeebs now,” Sven says slowly. 

Slav does a mental check and realizes it really  _ has  _ been that long. It barely seems that way. Sven has simply become a fixture in Guns of Gamara lifestyle at this point. “And this upsets you?” Slav asks, confused. 

Sven folds his arms in front of him on the lab table and settles his head on them. After a moment he mutters softly, “They’re sending us all away.”

Slav’s ears prick up at that. “Away?”

“Yeah,” Sven says. “The others are going to some place that helps with adjusting to the  _ hoktril  _ and all the things Alteans do to get them ready for them.” He shivers softly. “They’re still really scared of Altean rules and things. I keep telling them we don’t have to worry anymore, and so does Michela and Serrata and Turis and the others, but they don’t really understand. So probably they need that help. Michela says lots of other slaves get better after staying there for a few decafeebs, so I hope they get better too.”

“It is a very successful rehabilitation program,” Slav agrees. “There is approximately an eighty two point six five percent success rate for former slaves to be able to lead the rest of their lives without worrying about Altean indoctrination. I designed some of the protocols myself.” 

Sven looks a little reassured by that. “What about the others? What if my friends can’t get better?”

“They are likely to,” Slav says. “None of them wore the  _ hoktril,  _ so there are less difficulties for them to overcome. But if one of the other Earthlings were to struggle with rehabilitation, the facility is still safe and takes good care of them. They would still have their freedom without danger.” 

Sven sighs. “I hope they’ll be okay.”

“So do I,” Slav says. Which is true, even if he has no connections to any of the other Earthlings. The  _ hoktril  _ and the indoctrination leading to it were terrible things. One of his first scientific advancements was finding ways to remove it, in defiance of Altean concepts of ‘peace.’ 

Science was never  _ supposed  _ to be used like that, after all.

“I notice,” Slav adds, when Sven doesn’t speak further, “that you are not included in this group.” 

Sven burrows his head into his arms for a moment, like he’s trying to avoid the question. But then he mutters into his arms, “They want to send me to Thorizil. Michela says there’s a family there waiting to take me in.”

Slav has always known this moment was coming, but that still sends an unexpected pang through all three of his hearts. There was simply no way for the Guns of Gamara to continue taking care of children—doing so for even two decafeebs had been too long, really. Even if they did mature surprisingly fast—Sven already comes up to his next set of arms now—it just wasn’t feasible in the long run. 

But even so, Sven had become a part of the structure of the Guns of Gamara. Slav finds he will be very sorry to see the little Earthling go, even if it  _ will  _ be quieter and more predictable again. 

“Thorizil is not a terrible planet,” Slav says after a moment. “The climate is similar to some locations on Earth, based on the details we have gathered. Thorizans are mammals with a social structure similar to Earthlings that relies on regular communication and physical contact. And they do not fear the Alteans, so it will be a safe place for you to live.” Honestly, it was a good choice all around by Jaxxor, or Michela, or whoever else had made the call. 

Sven doesn’t seem appeased by the explanation though. “I know,” he says. “Michela told me. But I don’t want to go.” 

Slav raises an eyebrow at that. “Why not?”

“I just…” Sven seems to struggle with the words for a moment, trying to find the right ones. Finally, he says, “I want to help. I don’t want to just…get put somewhere and be safe and that’s it. I want to fight Alteans. I want to help keep people safe, like you and Michela and Serrata and the others. I want to help free other Earthlings.” 

That is actually fairly in keeping with Sven’s personality so far, so Slav isn’t at all surprised by the declaration. “Have you told the others this?” 

“Yes,” Sven says, “but they say I’m too young, and it’s not something I have to worry about now. That I should grow up and  _ then  _ choose, ‘cause maybe living on another planet will make me want to do something else. They keep saying I shouldn’t have to grow up too early.” 

He scowls. “But I think that’s  _ stupid.  _ I was a slave, and mother and father were too until the Alteans killed them. And now my friends are still hurt by Alteans even two decafeebs later. I already know what Alteans do. I know better than a  _ lot  _ of people. And I want to help stop them, and help save people, and protect my new family. I don’t need to grow up to know that.”

Slav lets him make his tirade without argument, mostly because he completely understands, for once. Their reasons may differ, but the end result is the same. 

Sven sighs in frustration, and then very slowly fixes Slav with an apprehensive look. “Slav,” he asks softly, “Do you think I could be a Gun of Gamara?”

Slav sets down the components he’d been working with; he hasn’t done anything for the past few doboshes, anyway. “Why would you want that?” 

“You guys help people,” Sven says. “You protect people. You fight Alteans even when everyone else is scared to.”

Slav stares at him. “You want to be a hero,” he says. “This is not an organization of heroes. If you believe so you will be severely disillusioned soon enough.”

Sven frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“This job is not understood by most of the universe,” Slav says. “We understand that Altean peace is no peace at all, and comes at the cost of freedom. But to the vast majority of the worlds, we are little more than sowers of chaos and destruction. Much of our work happens in the dark, slowly working to increase even the probability of  _ potential  _ change. There are never enough of us. There are always casualties. You will never save everyone. No matter how hard you try, you can  _ never  _ protect everyone. It is a mathematical impossibility.” 

Sven’s frown grows deeper. “Then why do the Guns of Gamara even keep fighting, if it’s so impossible?”

“Everyone has their reasons,” Slav says. “I don’t pretend to know them. But they understand the impossibility of the fight as well. They know what they are fighting against.” 

It’s a harsh lesson that every Gun has learned. The organization has existed for many decafeebs as an elite resistance organization, but it’s difficult to make headway against the Alteans’ ‘peace.’ They have always been outnumbered and outgunned; only their quick, guerrilla operations and clever maneuvers in the shadows have kept them alive as long as they have been. It’s not quite futile, but it is a heavy and difficult battle to fight, largely skewed in the opponent’s favor. 

Most people who join the Guns of Gamara know that already, though. Most of them have reasons to gamble on long odds. Most of them understand by now that not everyone or everything can be saved. Most of them have already failed to preserve something. 

Sven is not most agents. He’s a bright child, but he is a child. There is a high probability he won’t understand the extent of that lesson. And Slav had promised never to lie to him. He won’t start now. 

Sven stares at the cable coils ahead of him for a very long time without saying anything. Slav is tempted to return to his work, but he remains still instead.

It takes almost five doboshes, but finally Sven speaks. “Somebody still has to try,” he says slowly. “Maybe I couldn’t save  _ everyone,  _ but I could still save  _ someone.  _ That still seems worth it.”

“You will be disappointed,” Slav observes. “Even if you try, there will be high probabilities that you will fail.”

“Maybe,” Sven says. “But you and Michela and Serrata saved me and my friends, and that made a difference to  _ me.”  _

Of course it did. Without the intervention of the Guns Sven would still be a slave. He’s old enough now at eleven or so decafeebs that they would begin the initial indoctrination process. Slav finds the thought disturbing, to think that the Altean peace programs and obedience procedures and drugs would start to siphon away Sven’s curious nature or his desire to do the right thing and help others. He finds himself very grateful to be in this reality, where that possibility has collapsed. 

But Sven’s statement has more far-reaching consequences than he probably realizes. To Sven, it is likely very simple: he was helped, and now desires to help others in turn. 

To Slav, the mathematical implications are much broader. For every large group of slaves they manage to save, if even one has Sven’s conviction and desire to help, inspired by those that helped them in turn, they could turn around to do the same for another group. And another individual in that group feeling the same could turn around again and do even more work to liberate others. Over and over, branching wider and farther. 

Who knows how far it could go, with people as determined or dedicated as this? Who knows what kind of strength and skill could be hidden in those like Sven, just waiting for that potential to be unleashed, as long as they’re found and given a chance? 

The Guns of Gamara are full of agents who have already failed to preserve something, or who act out of vengeance. Perhaps new blood is required not for the physical, tangible needs of skilled combatants, but for a different perspective. Perhaps they just need people who want to change this reality, and not merely accept that that change is close to impossible. People who are willing to break convention. 

Perhaps they need people who look at things always in the positive, rather than the negative. 

“It is very dangerous,” Slav warns. “There is a chance that  _ you  _ won’t come back from a mission one day, as well.” 

“Or maybe I make sure other people  _ do  _ come back,” Sven counters.

“The training is exceptionally difficult. You would need to be in peak physical and mental condition. There are many skills and abilities you would need to master. And Earthlings are already not as strong, fast or enduring as many other races, or lack a proper number of hands, tails, wings, or other useful appendages or latent abilities. You would need to expend significant effort to maintain effectiveness compared to other agents.”

“I’m good at learning,” Sven says, determined. “And I’m a hard worker. You know that. I can learn how to fight or shoot or sneak around or anything else. I  _ can.  _ And I  _ want  _ to.”

Slav has no answer to that. Sven narrows his eyes and sits up, his earlier melancholy gone, replaced by childishly fierce determination. “I can  _ do  _ it,” he insists. “I know I can. And you know I can too, right?” His expression gains a little hesitance. “Slav…what’s my chance that I can do it? That I can be a Gun of Gamara? There’s…there’s a reality where I can do that, right?”

Slav considers. He regards Sven’s obvious determination and factors it against prior trends and interests. He considers the training and the skills required, the hardships of the job, the difficulties the Guns constantly face. He considers each possibility, each cause that might lead to it. 

“Sixty-two point seven four percent,” he says finally. “As I see it, that is your current chance for success. It can raise, if you work hard and face each challenge head on. The effort you put into the task will increase your probability. But if you do,” he finishes, “it is very possible that  _ this  _ reality is the one where Sven becomes a Gun of Gamara.” 

Even in positive presentation, sixty-two percent is a less than optimal number. But Sven grins anyway, determined. “That’s more of a chance to win than to fail,” he says. “And I’ll work hard. I  _ can  _ do it, I know I can. I can make that number bigger.” Then his face falls. “But they probably won’t let me try, if they still want to send me to Thorizil…”

He’s not wrong. The Guns will probably check in on him on Thorizil, but Slav doubts they would have Sven return even once he’s reached maturity. They’re supposed to be integrating freed Earthlings back into free societies; making one an agent would be unusual for several reasons. 

Slav considers, and then abruptly turns for the door. “Follow me.”

Sven blinks in surprise, but dutifully scrambles down from his seat and trails after. “Where are we going?”

“To Jaxxor,” Slav answers. 

“Are you going to talk to him?” Sven asks, brightening.

“I will try,” Slav says. “I cannot guarantee my success, but I will at least make an attempt.” 

If he’s honest with even himself, Slav isn’t sure  _ why  _ he’s making such an attempt. This is so…spontaneous. Slav likes to act with proper logic and reason, not with instinct. 

But he does understand feeling compelled to follow through with a task even if nobody else does. He understands that frustration of nobody listening. He does not wish to see that happen to Sven. So he will do what he can.

The leader of the Guns of Gamara can be found most often in the command center, and that probability proves true today as well. The tall, muscular Garatan is in the middle of reviewing reports of Altean ship movements when Slav enters, ignoring the two honor guards, with Sven scampering at his heels.

“Keep silent,” Slav mutters to Sven under his breath, giving the child a warning look. “If you are seen as a youngling throwing a tantrum, you will be rejected.”

Sven scowls at that, but nods in acknowledgement, and presses his lips together. 

They’ll have to see if he can maintain that. It will be his first test, Slav supposes.

It’s probably best to follow as much protocol as possible, so Slav salutes smartly with all four of his right arms as Jaxxor turns to face him. “Sir,” he says, “I would like to submit a sponsorship for an agent candidate.”

The leader’s eye-ridges rise in surprise. Every established Gun agent with a certain number of missions and a trustworthy reputation is within their rights to suggest new agents for the organization, and to personally oversee their training if desired, but Slav has never exercised his right to do so before. “Oh? And who would this be? Is it one of the Xetherians rescued on the last mission?”

“No,” Slav says. “He’s right here.” And he gestures to Sven, who steps up next to him proudly. 

Jaxxor frowns. “The Earthling?”

“Yes.”

“We have already discussed this,” Jaxxor says, frowning disapprovingly at Sven. “You are too young for the organization. You are too young to make such a heavy decision. You will be placed in a safehome on Thorizil. Should you decide when you reach maturity that you wish to join us, we will consider it.”

Sven bristles, but obeys Slav’s warning, and doesn’t argue back. 

Slav does it for him. 

“That argument is flawed,” Slav says bluntly.

The leader frowns at him. “Are you telling me this one  _ is  _ considered at maturity already? I am not an expert on Earthlings, but he is clearly a child.”

“That is not in question,” Slav agrees. “Your argument that he is too young to join is. There are families in this organization that have been a part of its membership for generations. As I recall, your own esteemed grandfather was leader of the Guns of Gamara as well in his day. When did you begin training?”

Jaxxor’s eyes narrow. “I did not train officially for the Guns until my thirtieth decafeeb.”

“But you trained long before that to prepare for Gamara requirements,” Slav deduces. He wasn’t there for that, of course, but he’s made it his business to know as much as possible about everything regarding the organization he works for. The leader had been exceptionally skilled when running through the initial trials.

Jaxxor’s scowl grows deeper, but after a moment he acknowledges grudgingly, “Yes.”

“With your grandfather, even? And your mother, also a Gamara agent? Did they prepare you initially?”

“They did,” Jaxxor concedes. “If Sven would like to find training on Thorizil to prepare for joining us—“

“Are citizens of Thorizil Gun agents?” Slav asks. It’s a question he already knows the answer to, of course. Thorizil has their own standing army and have no small military prowess, but they aren’t Gun agents, outside the rare few that decided to join of their own volition. “Would they have the knowledge and skill necessary for training one to prepare as a Gun of Gamara?”

Jaxxor’s lip-ridges grind together in frustration. “No,” he concedes again. 

“Then we agree,” Slav says, “That to refuse him an advantage offered to other Guns of Gamara is inefficient and wasteful of a potential Gun agent, when we do not have the resources to be particular.”

“Perhaps,” Jaxxor says. “And if he were older, I would consider it. But that does not mean I will bend regulations for a child, especially an Earthling child. He is young. He knows nothing of the world outside. He doesn’t know what he asks for. Let him have his freedom.”

Sven squirms beside Slav, but doesn’t say anything.

“Perhaps,” Slav says, “This is the decision he desires to make  _ with  _ that freedom. And perhaps, as a slave that spent a lifetime to this point in Altean captivity, he understands exactly what he asks for.”

“I will not permit it, Slav,” Jaxxor says sharply. “He may come back when he is old enough to really choose.”

Slav’s eyes narrow.  _ “Sir,”  _ he snaps, biting the word out through his beak, only barely remembering protocol now, “If we decide what he can do with his life for him—based on his race, his age, his knowledge of the universe, or what we believe he understands—we are no better than the Alteans.  _ They  _ are the ones that determined what Earthlings can be used for, what they are allowed to know, what they are permitted to do.  _ They  _ are the ones that remove choice.  _ They  _ grant peace at the sake of freedom.  _ We do not.  _ That is not the creed of the Guns of Gamara.”

The leader looks as though Slav had tail-slapped him, stunned at the words. Even Sven looks startled. 

“And what would you have me do, then?” Jaxxor finally snaps, after a moment. “After accusing me of being like…like  _ them?” _

“Let him train,” Slav says. “Teach him things. The basics of combat, firearm usage, stealth. Teach him how to prepare for the  _ real  _ Guns of Gamara tests, but do not permit him to risk himself on missions until he’s at maturity. If he’s as young and ignorant as you imply, there is an eighty-five percent chance that he will get tired of the work and effort soon after beginning, and give up. Should that happen, send him to Thorizil, with the knowledge he won’t trouble you to become a Gun anymore and will integrate as an Earthling into free society.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” Jaxxor asks.

“Then you have a proven dedicated aspirant who will already be prepared for Gun testing when the time comes,” Slav says. “And an Earthling agent  _ would  _ be beneficial.”

“There are so few free Earthlings,” Jaxxor says. “What good is putting one on the front lines to potentially die?” 

“Morale,” Slav says. “An Earthling agent will be exceedingly useful rescuing other Earthling colonies and groups. He will be able to communicate with them easily, and they are seventy-seven percent more likely to follow one of their own. Earthlings learning their people are free is one thing— _ seeing  _ it will statistically raise their chances to desire freedom and work towards aiding others as well by a significant margin. And of course, Earthlings are naturally enduring and adaptive species; this is the entire reason they are prized so highly as non-cogs by the Alteans. I calculate those skills will translate to combat exceptionally well.

“By  _ contrast,”  _ Slav continues, before the leader can interrupt him, “moving him to Thorizil at this stage is pointless. Integrating freed Earthlings into free societies is an important goal, but serves the function of preparing those free societies to become used to Earthlings more than it prepares Earthlings for free lives. There aren’t enough freed Earthlings yet to begin creating free colonies for them to establish themselves as a culture. Keeping them safe and getting them used to lives as non-slaves is acceptable given the circumstances, but only if they are incapable or unwilling to pursue more actively involved lifestyles. This is not the case for Sven, who has repeatedly stated his personal goals, none of which involve being protected and preserved like an endangered species.”

He stares Jaxxor down the entire time he speaks.

The leader looks incredulous at the onslaught of words. Slav can hear his teeth grinding from here. But after a moment he looks to Sven, and says curtly, “This is really what you want? To train to become a Gun?”

Sven glances hesitantly at Slav, who says, “You may speak, if the leader addresses you directly.”

Sven nods, and turns to stare Jaxxor down with determination. “Then, yes,” he says. “Yes, I want to be a Gun agent. I want to  _ help  _ people. And help free other Earthlings. I want to keep people from getting hurt. I’ve  _ seen  _ people get hurt by Alteans. I don’t want that anymore.”

Jaxxor gives Slav a sharp look.

“I would certainly not tell him to say such things,” Slav says, guessing the reason. “There is no mathematical benefit to me to convince a child to fight. Furthermore, questioning other Gun agents will easily verify that these are his own personal thoughts, spoken to them as well.” 

Jaxxor looks displeased, but after a moment he sighs. “I will…consider your arguments,” he says. “There is some logic to them.”

“Excellent,” Slav says. “I will return tomorrow to see if you wish for further clarification on details. I can provide some statistical analysis for every scenario you provide in counter.”

Jaxxor grits his teeth. “You aren’t going to give up on this, are you?”

“I am told I am very persistent,” Slav says mildly. 

“Persistent is too weak a word for it,” Jaxxor grouses. “Leave me. I will think about your arguments.” And he turns away, clearly dismissing them.

Slav turns away, satisfied. Sven looks crestfallen, but scampers after him, clearly knowing better than to stay put.

“He didn’t agree,” Sven says, as soon as they’re out of the room.

“No, but I calculate a seventy-nine point four percent chance that he will,” Slav says. 

“Really?” Sven asks, brightening. “But why? Is it because of all the stuff about me helping other Earthlings?”

“In part,” Slav says. “Most of the statistics and logical arguments were there as support. He considers it now because I compared him to the enemy.” 

Sven’s expression turns thoughtful. “When you said he didn’t have the right to decide things for me?”

“Yes,” Slav says. “I believe he has the best interests of you and every other Earthling at heart. It is…disturbing, for many, to see children fighting, and there is a natural desire to spare innocence for as long as possible. But I do not think you are an  _ ignorant  _ child. I think your life so far has given you the right to decide. And I do not think anyone has the right to take that from you. He merely needed reminding of that.”

“Is that why he fights?” Sven asks. “To…to spare innocence? To just not be like them? Even if it’s hard and maybe impossible?”

“I don’t know,” Slav says. “I do not pretend to know his reasons.” 

“Oh. Well. Thanks, at least. For talking to him for me, ‘cause nobody would listen to me,” Sven says.

Slav merely shrugs as he leads the way back towards his lab. There are many things still to do, especially after such an impulsive break in routine. What  _ had  _ caused him to do that? 

Sven trails after him silently for a long while, expression thoughtful. Then he says, “Slav…how come  _ you’re  _ here?”

Slav pauses mid-step. “Why does it matter?”

“It just…it doesn’t make sense,” Sven says slowly. “You said everyone’s here for a reason, even if it’s impossible. But  _ you  _ don’t like impossibilities. So…how come  _ you’re  _ here?”

Slav considers. He knows the answer, of course. He’s just never admitted it to anyone before.

But Sven is different. Sven  _ listens.  _ He learns. His goals are preservation, and positivity, not vengeance and futility. Perhaps he would understand.

So he finally answers. “Their science is wrong.”

“What?”

“The Altean sciences, their technologies…they are wrong.”

“Wrong? Like…you mean inefficient?” Sven asks, wrinkling his nose a little. “Or just not correct?”

It’s not an unsurprising deduction to make, considering Slav’s usual reactions. But it’s not accurate. “No,” Slav says softly. “I don’t mean mechanically wrong. I mean  _ morally  _ wrong.”

Sven frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Slav has never spoken of  _ moral  _ justifications before. Slav…isn’t very good with feeling things. He never has been. Emotions make logic so much more difficult, confound probability and efficiency in ways that are simply unpredictable. He’s never really known how to deal with things like that, at least not easily.

But this had been one of the few decisions he had ever made based purely on belief, and not logic, and it’s the reason he’s with the Guns of Gamara today. Even if he’s never explained it to anyone before.

Until now.

“Alteans…their technology is incredible,” Slav explains. “Highly efficient forms of travel. Sophisticated ways to research and store data. Their alchemical prowess can all but eradicate the need for limited forms of energy and can provide near limit _ less  _ resources. Their healing technology can save individuals from nearly the brink of death, in all but the most fatal of injuries or irreversible genetic illnesses. Alteans could spread peace.  _ Real  _ peace, if they so desired. They have all of the technological advancements to do so.”

Sven’s frown grows deeper. “But they don’t do that.”

“No,” Slav says, “And that’s why their science is  _ wrong.  _ They  _ could  _ save the universe with it, and make this reality the most like a paradise than any other. But they use it to enslave the universe instead. Peace at the sake of  _ freedom.  _ That is not what these technologies should be used for. This is not what  _ science  _ is for. They use their advancements to cause pain where they could make cures. And I cannot accept that.” 

He never could. That was why he’d left home, when his planet had passively accepted Altean rule without a hint of argument. Even if no one else ever understood what he saw, or what he felt compelled to do.

Because maybe his homeland and his family were safe, simply by permitting the Alteans to do as they liked, with the justification that if they  _ behaved  _ they would be just fine. But it wasn’t that way for everyone else. Alteans would decide if other planets, other peoples, deserved to be ‘pacified’ or not, and often those other cultures never stood a chance. How could they? Altean science so vastly outstripped most planets and societies, none of them could fight back. None of them could understand how to. 

But Slav had  _ always  _ seen the potential in those technologies. He knew what Alteans were really capable of. He knew what they could accomplish towards  _ actual  _ peace. He knew they chose not to, on purpose, because they needed control too much to grant others even a  _ chance  _ to make what they viewed as a mistake. 

Science was never made for that. It was supposed to  _ improve  _ lives, not dominate them. 

Sven’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says softly. “You…you said you made a bunch of the protocols to help people with  _ hoktril.  _ And you make all this stuff to stop Alteans. Or hide people from them. You…you don’t just fight Alteans. You fight their  _ science.” _

“Very few others know how to,” Slav agrees. “But I have a genius intellect. I can do it, and I can undo some of the things they have done to use their advancements the wrong way.”

Sven considers this. “Then you protect people.”

“I would not go so far as that,” Slav says. “I counteract the Alteans where I can and go on missions as ordered. That is hardly as altruistic as you make it out to be.”

“No,” Sven says. “You do. Even if you don’t make it sound like that. You said the Guns aren’t really like heroes, but I think you’re wrong. I think you act like one. Even if you don’t see it.” 

Slav merely snorts at that, and finally begins walking back towards his lab again. “That is a very idealized way to look at things. I hope for your sake you manage to hold onto that view through your training.”

Sven grins at him determinedly. “I’m not gonna give up, like you said.”

“You have a reasonable probability of not doing so.”

Sven nods. “I’m not gonna get tired of it or bored of it if it gets hard,” he says. “I’m gonna be strong. A great Gun agent. I’ll show him I can, and then I’ll do just what you said. I’ll help save others, and other Earthlings, and I’ll inspire them. And maybe one day we’ll all be free.” 

That is a very long-reaching goal. There is only a very slim probability that Sven will ever see it happen in his lifetime. But perhaps he can at least start it.

Sven considers. “I’ll help you, too,” he says. “With making  _ real  _ peace, out of the things Alteans can do. Making sure all their technology isn’t used for bad reasons.” 

“You don’t even understand how a gravity generator works,” Slav says, disbelieving.

“No,” Sven says, “But I can shoot things so you have time to deal with all the smart stuff without having to worry about getting hurt.” 

“There is no guarantee that you would even be assigned to the same cells as me,” Slav says. “Or that I will even be alive by the time you are an agent.” 

Sven scowls. “You will be. And then I’ll protect  _ all  _ of you. And everyone else, too.” 

It’s a very idealized goal. A probability so nearly impossible that reality only has an infinitesimally small chance of manifesting. Slav knows Sven can’t save everyone, and his goals are too broad and far-reaching to really become reality in full—at best, only in part.

Despite that, Slav certainly hopes that Sven reaches it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a few cameos in this chapter in particular. If you spot one, be sure to let me know.

Slav’s calculations do come to pass. 

The rest of the Earthling children are packed up within a few quintents and sent out to the rehabilitation facility to learn how to live their own lives. But Sven remains in the Gun base as their leader deliberates. And, two spicolian movements later, he finally gives the approval for Sven to begin very basic training.

“Only basics,” Jaxxor adds, insistent. “He will not be going on missions until he has passed the final trials, and he will not be permitted to attempt those until he is of age for his race.”

But Sven is content with the decision anyway, and even more so when he’s given his own room closer to the main barracks—not shunted out of the way as the children’s quarters had been. If he is going to be a Gun in training, it is clear he will be a part of  _ all  _ aspects of training and Gun life, in one way or another.

He begins his training in earnest. At only eleven decafeebs, Slav estimates he has not even reached the first stage of Earthling maturation, so Sven is still somewhat limited in forms of training he can partake in. Firearms instruction is impossible when half of the weaponry is simply too large for him to use. And he isn’t strong enough yet for heavy weapons training or most of the harsh stealth and endurance tests older agents are called upon to perform.

But he is still kept quite busy with basic self defense and martial arts exercises, so that at least he has a higher probability of keeping himself alive in dangerous encounters. And his education begins to expand even further, as he begins training in nearly ten thousand years worth of history, politics and warfare, learning more intently about the Alteans and their allies. All of it builds a carefully cultivated routine that Sven slowly grows used to, a framework for him to gradually grow stronger around.

He’s so busy, in fact, that Slav doesn’t see as much of him once his training begins. Gun agents are limited in number and none of them have time to waste on frivolities and play, not when there is so much work to be done. Sven isn’t worked nearly so hard as fully inducted Gun agents, but now that he’s training to join their ranks rather than a harbored fugitive, he’s not given nearly so much time to himself. 

Slav knows this is an important necessity, required to get Sven used to more military routine and to prepare him for the dangers ahead, should he continue on this path. But even so, after almost two decafeebs of being constantly pestered by the little Earthling on a regular basis, Sven’s absence is strangely unsettling. 

He finds he dislikes it. He likes to think it’s simply because Sven had established predictable parameters with his presence now, and his absence is undoing two decafeebs’ worth of probability calculations. And perhaps that is even true, in part. But mostly, Slav is shocked to find that he just misses having that obnoxious little shadow hanging around, for seemingly no reason other than just because. 

The lack of logic around things like  _ feelings  _ is simply irksome, but Slav finds he has no real desire to purge that particular defect out of his thoughts anyway. Truly, Earthlings and their strange pack-bonding effect on anything around them are terrifying. Is it any wonder that the Alteans had pacified them so quickly? Unchecked, even a small band of Earthlings could prove to be deadly simply from their ability to bond to and strengthen the unity of dozens of other civilizations.

And it isn’t as though Sven completely disappears. The child does still find his way to Slav’s lab at least once per movement, during quintents when he’s given off time, or in evenings after long vargas of practice. He’s often worn out from his training, both mentally and physically, but even so maintains the same enthusiasm for it as he had when he’d first considered joining the Guns of Gamara.

“I did fifty pushups today,” Sven reports in his first feeb of training. “That’s more than before! I’m getting stronger!”

“Your abilities are certainly improving in a quantifiable way,” Slav agrees. Sven beams at him.

“I learned a cool block today,” Sven explains another time, as he dutifully sorts the power crystals Slav puts in front of him. “I even used it against Turis, and he’s got four arms. I think I surprised him.”

Slav thinks it’s more than likely that Sven’s trainers are still going very easy on him by comparison due to his age, but all he says instead is, “That is a skill you will want to hone. Most species you will face off against will have some advantage against you in that regard, be it extra limbs, abilities, or increased strength or speed. You are doing very well to practice against such opponents now.”

Sven’s expression grows determined. “I’m going to figure it out. I don’t care if they’re all stronger or faster than me, or have more arms or whatever. I’m gonna do it.” 

“With that attitude, there is a very high percentage that you will,” Slav agrees. 

And it’s hardly a lie. As the Gun that had suggested Sven for candidacy, he’s within his rights to keep tabs on the agent he vouched for, and Sven’s records are impressive. Even so early in his training, his teachers grudgingly admit the child shows a lot of promise. He adapts to new skills well, he doesn’t complain or give up easily from bumps and bruises and sore muscles, and he’s bright enough to absorb tactics and history and other lessons with ease. 

Slav suspects Jaxxor and other agents had expected Sven to give up within the first feeb when he realized how hard the training would be. Only now are they learning what Slav had deduced within the first feeb or two of Sven’s life in the Gun base: that the Earthling is both fiercely stubborn and incredibly gifted, and not so easily dissuaded by the threat of a little hard work.

Sven grins at him. “What’s my chance of being a Gun agent now?” he asks. 

He asks this often—nearly every time he visits, now—so Slav already has the calculation ready. “Based on your current success metrics, your probability has increased to seventy-five point four percent.” 

Sven looks delighted with the increase. “It’s going to keep going up,” he tells Slav confidently.

Slav has no reason to doubt him. Not even knowing some of the potential negative outliers. He’s surprisingly pleased with Sven’s successes, even if they’re small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things compared to so many other accomplishments by the Guns of Gamara.

Numerically they may be insignificant, but they feel so much grander to Slav anyway, and that is satisfactory to him.

* * *

 

Sven keeps working hard, and life goes on in the Guns of Gamara. 

Slav regularly goes on missions, usually with fresh agents he has not worked with previously, most of whom annoy him. The fact that he rarely works with them again often suggests the same can be said in reverse, but it is hardly  _ his  _ fault that the other Guns can’t do things accurately and correctly. 

When he isn’t on missions, Slav continues to upgrade the Guns of Gamara base, and such tasks keep him occupied for another decafeeb. Sven helps in his rare moments of freedom, and Slav instructs him more directly in the upkeep and defense of the base, now that he is to one day be a full agent. Sven absorbs the instruction with keen interest, especially in any case that has to do with anti-Altean weaponry, or anything that might halt them in their tracks.

Before Slav even realizes it, another decafeeb has fully passed, and the base is as upgraded as he can possibly make it. And so, with his tasks here finally completed, the leader assigns Slav his next set of missions. 

“You’re going away?” Sven asks, crestfallen, during his quintent off. 

At somewhere around twelve decafeebs, Sven is marginally taller—his head comes to Slav’s topmost shoulders—and he’s scrawny and stick-thin despite all his hard work. The Earthling’s training has recently also gifted him with a voracious appetite, and he’d snuck something out of the kitchens to munch on in Slav’s lab while assisting with tasks. The fact that he’d pulled it off at all is frankly impressive, as far as Slav is concerned; Sven’s basic stealth training is already being put to use most effectively.

Slav glares at the crumbs from the letah bread on his work table, and Sven sheepishly sweeps them up into a pile and disposes of them, aware of Slav’s penchant for cleanliness and order. Once the mess is taken care of, Slav says, “Yes.”

“For longer than just a mission? I know you leave for movements, sometimes, for the bigger missions.” 

“Far longer,” Slav says. “Jaxxor has asked me to upgrade two other bases with the same advancements I have installed here. It will assist the attacks and stealth missions of the other agents stationed in other galaxies significantly. If they are well defended and have better intel gathering technology, the Alteans can be halted that much more effectively. I suspect two decafeebs at least—perhaps more.”

Sven frowns. Slav can easily predict the warring thoughts going on in his head. On the one hand, anything fighting the Alteans is something he fully supports. Even three decafeebs after his liberation, having never encountered another Altean since, he still dislikes them severely. Giving other bases the ability to fight Alteans more effectively  _ and  _ protect themselves is something he is sure to want.

On the other, Sven does not like any of the Gun agents he’s grown attached to leaving for long periods of time, especially if there is danger attached. In the single decafeeb since his training has begun, they’ve already lost Griven. While Sven had not bonded with that agent as strongly as some others, it had still hurt him fiercely to know the agent was never coming back. When agents return from missions longer than a quintent is one of the few times Sven chafes at the more rigid, military training schedule he’s been worked into, often attempting to sneak out early to see if everyone is okay.

Sven mulls it all over for a moment before asking, “When are you leaving?”

“Not immediately,” Slav reassures—and he’s surprised to find that he does mean it  _ reassuringly,  _ and not just  _ factually.  _ Sven being upset irks him, as it does most of the Gun agents. “I must prepare most of the plans and components, especially where the other bases do not have ready access to the supplies. It will take me at least a feeb to prepare before I can leave—there is much to be done.”

Sven seems moderately reassured by that. “I can help, if you want.”

“If you are granted the time,” Slav agrees. He has Sven well trained by now—Sven can prepare basic components, assemble machinery parts, and categorize power crystals with such reliability at this point that Slav rarely needs to check his work. He’s still slower than Slav by virtue of not having an extra three pairs of hands to work with, of course. But that still makes him more efficient than half of the other Gun agents that Slav has to supervise to ensure they are doing it  _ properly.  _

“I can talk to Katala,” Sven says. “See if she’ll let me help out, if it’s that important.”

The master trainer to most novices is a hard teacher, but fair. She had not treated Sven with any favoritism, but she hadn’t discounted him for his obvious Earthling weaknesses to start, either. There is at least a fifty-three percent chance she would alter Sven’s training schedule to accommodate necessary Guns of Gamara work.

“That is agreeable,” Slav says. 

Sven nods, but then hesitates. After a moment he asks slowly, “Are you...gonna be in danger?”

“There is always a probability for danger, in this line of work,” Slav tells him honestly. He had promised never to lie to the Earthling, and even three decafeebs later he takes that promise extremely seriously.

Sven frowns. “I know that. But I mean....will there be  _ more  _ danger than usual?”

“There are too many variables to estimate just yet,” Slav says. “The other bases are not as well defended, but they are still well hidden with my gravity generators. A direct attack is unlikely. But I will still assist those agents on missions, as well. Until they are properly upgraded, those missions may have a higher percentage for resulting in injury or death due to less up to date equipment.”

Sven’s frown grows deeper. He does not look happy with that answer.

“Don’t worry,” Slav says, with unexpected impulsivity. “I will not act in any way that increases my probability of death.” 

It’s what Slav  _ always  _ does, but the verbal promise seems to reassure Sven all the same, and his frown eases up a little. “You’d better not,” he says, crossing his arms. “You have to come back here when you’re done. After all,  _ you  _ vouched for me here—you’ll have to see how much I improved after two decafeebs.” 

“If you keep going at your current rate of improvement, I expect your skills will have grown exponentially,” Slav says with a snort. “I doubt I have anything to worry about.” 

Sven grins at him. “You don’t, but get back here alive anyway. I’ll still have stories to tell. And nobody else will know how to calculate  _ exactly  _ how much I improved.”

Well, he’s certainly not wrong  _ there.  _

The feeb passes alarmingly quickly after that. True to form, Sven does ask his master trainer for time to assist Slav with the preparations, and he’s actually successful. Slav suspects, at least in part, that the importance of the mission had lent weight to that decision. He also suspects there is a high probability that most other agents had done everything in their power to avoid working with Slav for his preparations, and Sven was an efficient solution to that particular problem. 

Slav isn’t terribly upset by that. Most other Gun agents can’t properly identify power cell components or assemble a flaxom generator with any sort of reliability, anyway. Slav would spend another feeb supervising and fixing their poor work. Not to mention listen to their constant complaints over his so-called ‘nitpicking.’ 

As if precise power crystal placement to avoid death by power overload and resulting deadly fireballs could be considered ‘nitpicking’! 

But Sven knows what he’s doing, and doesn’t complain about Slav’s very specific instructions. His help is quite welcome as Slav collects parts, assembles supplies, and painstakingly draws out plans for his next assignments. Perhaps Sven still doesn’t understand the complex theory behind gravity generators, but he’s still clever enough to be useful.

So it is that, even though there’s a significant amount to prepare, Slav is still ready to depart faster than even he can predict. His large shuttle of supplies is ready and his miniature gravity generator is prepared to hide it in an emergency. He has a single agent for escort to pilot them to the next location, and the beginnings of a strict schedule already outlined in his mind. 

All that is left is to leave.

“Be careful,” Sven says, watching as the last of the items are packed away by a few other Gun agents. He’s gotten special permission to see Slav off, even if he’s technically supposed to be in the middle of basic training at the moment.

“I’ll be as careful as it is statistically possible to be,” Slav promises.

“I mean it,” Sven says, tone and expression serious. “The no contact rule is bad enough. I don’t wanna hear that you got killed.” 

Due to the dangers of potentially being intercepted and tracked, the various Gamara bases contact each other very infrequently out of necessity. One of Slav’s many duties will be to ensure that the other bases have better defenses and protections for their transmissions, to reduce the probability of interception. But even then, frivolous calls outside of mission parameters are strictly forbidden for the safety and protection of all Guns of Gamara agents. 

The Alteans only need one opportunity to permanently end them.

“You will most likely not receive such news,” Slav says. In part because Slav intends for this to be the reality in which he survives. But also because should the Alteans succeed in finding them, they will not leave remnants behind to deliver such a message. 

“Good,” Sven says. Then he launches himself forward, and wraps his arms around Slav in another of those ridiculous grapple-hugs he’s so fond of. He’s tall enough now that it awkwardly pins Slav’s topmost arms to his sides, but he manages to complete the ritual with his second set, returning the hug with only mild exasperation.

He’s getting a lot better at it. There’s quantifiable proof.

“Good luck with all your upgrades and things,” Sven says, once he releases Slav.

Slav sniffs through his beak. “Luck is merely—”

“—a measurement of positive probability,” Sven finishes for him, rolling his eyes a little, but he also grins. “Yeah. I know. Fine, then I hope your probability of getting whatever you need to do done is really high.” 

“Perhaps this will be the reality where it is,” Slav agrees.

Slav boards the shuttle shortly thereafter alongside his impatient pilot escort. But he does look back one last time, to find Sven still watching from the safety of the hangar, waving goodbye excitedly, until the airlock doors snap firmly shut. 

As he exits the base gravity generator, he finds something entirely unexpected in his head that he can’t really put a name to. It takes him a while to deduce that what he is  _ feeling,  _ and not merely thinking, is regret.

For the first time, he is bewildered to find he doesn’t want to leave the Gamara base at all. It’s not something he’s ever experienced before. One base has always been like another to him; a transient space where he works and recuperates until orders send him on to the next. Even leaving his own planet had meant nothing to him, not when there was nothing left behind that had been important to him.

But for the first time that he can ever remember, it feels like he’s leaving  _ home.  _

It isn’t a feeling he likes. He will just have to stack probability in his favor, so that he can return... _ home _ ...in one piece.

* * *

 

Upgrades such as those he’s being assigned to are normally tasks Slav quite enjoys. 

The challenge of improving upon anything is always entertaining, and the repetitive tasks and measured steps for improvement are comfortably predictable. Where others might find the work tedious or boring, Slav revels in it. Where others might chafe at spending vargas upon vargas alone in a lab or a computer station or a ship’s bay, Slav finds calmness and focus in the solitude and isolation. 

But this time around, the tasks leave him antsy, and he doesn’t like it much.

It isn’t that the job itself is any different. If anything, these upgrades are even easier than before, after he’s worked out all the difficulties in the home base. He’s already designed all the parts and he knows exactly how to install them; it’s only a matter of getting them all set up and integrated. The work itself is actually quite satisfactory, almost simple.

The bases aren’t the problem either. Adjusting to a new location is always an irritation, of course. They’re built with slight differences, supplies and rooms being arranged and used in entirely new ways, and everything feels slightly  _ off  _ in a way that makes Slav’s spine itch. He always dislikes the  _ inefficiencies  _ of the new places and bases he resides in, after growing used to (and improving) wherever he was last. But that is easy enough to remedy by improving efficiencies in his new locations (regardless of how much other Gun agents may complain about it), and he does eventually grow used to everything. 

It isn’t the missions. Of course he is required to join them—attacks on Altean bases, raids on Altean transport ships, scouting missions to uncover new data and new plans. As always, they are dangerous, in some cases with alarmingly high probabilities of death or injury. More than once, Slav ends up in the infirmaries, and more than once he witnesses the death of an agent when a situation becomes truly perilous in this reality. But that is  _ always  _ the case with the Guns of Gamara, no matter where Slav is stationed. He does exactly as promised, and makes decisions according to carefully calculated probabilities designed to prevent him from choosing lethal options, but that is no different than before.

It isn’t even the people, though certainly they are irritating in their own right. The other Gun agents put up with him out of necessity, and because Jaxxor ordered them to. They understand his technological improvements will in turn improve their own chances of survival and progress. They assist as needed, grumbling under their breaths when they think Slav can’t hear them as they complain about exact particular configurations, but they do what they are told. It’s clear they don’t like Slav much, but that’s hardly anything new. If anything, it’s comfortably in predictable margins for the way  _ most  _ people interact with him. 

There’s nothing quantifiably different about his assignments to improve the other Gun bases in any capacity. But that doesn’t change the fact that he wishes he were done already anyway. Two decafeebs seems to pass absurdly slowly. Slav could almost believe the bases are located in the quantum abyss somehow, even though his calculations prove the probability of such a thing is infinitesimally small to the point of being all but impossible.

The only reason he can really deduce for his response is that he wants to go  _ home.  _ He is, incredibly, for the first time in his life, experiencing what he can only assume is  _ homesickness.  _

He doesn’t rush his work, of course. Regardless of how badly he  _ apparently  _ wants to return to the more familiar setting of the home base, that is no excuse to do a poor job in his assignments. He applies as much care and precision as he always does this work…but he looks forward to the quintent when it will be completed.

It seems absurd to want to leave one base for another. There isn’t logic to it. But there is intelligent conversation at the home base that he simply can’t find here. Most agents back home regard him with the same exasperated necessity as here, and he rarely bothers to interact with them. But there are some—Michela, Serrata, Byroc, Jaxxor—who at least acknowledge his presence and listen to him on occasion. He misses curious, excitable Sven, instructing him in new lessons or assisting him with his Earth projects. He even misses answering Sven’s inane questions or listening to his rambling reports about his day.

It’s an interesting and valuable lesson that Slav simply can’t quantify with mathematics. People, not locations, are the center of what defines a ‘home.’ And a true home can circumvent even the pure practicality of reason. 

So he works hard to return home. He’s careful and precise, but he has a goal besides merely upgrading the bases, and that drives him further. The first base in the Alsma quadrant is fully upgraded in just over a decafeeb, and he packs up his supplies and tools to his (and the Alsma base agents’) relief. 

The second base in the Zesark galaxy is much larger and takes far longer, but he works with dedication there too. It takes a decafeeb, and almost four additional feebs, to fully upgrade the base’s weapons systems, defense systems, communications, and fine tune other efficiencies. The gravity generator takes an additional feeb of work to repurpose; with a larger base, a larger generator is required, and it wears out much more quickly.

But at last, his work is completed. He reports the success of his mission to the leader of the Guns of Gamara, and is relieved when Jaxxor orders him back to the main base.

“There has been more Altean activity as of late in this quadrant, and other close quadrants,” Jaxxor reports. “We will need your expertise here.” And, almost under his breath, low enough that Slav is fairly certain he isn’t supposed to hear, Jaxxor adds, “And Meshkrit has all but begged me to remove you from her station.” 

Slav cares little about the Zesark base commander’s dislike of him. He is finally permitted to go  _ home.  _ “I will arrange for transportation and return as soon as possible,” he says, with a sharp salute to the holographic screen.

“We look forward to having you back,” Jaxxor says, perhaps more formally than factually. “Some of us more than others.”

Slav’s race is incapable of smiling the way many others do, but he closes his eyes for just a moment in unexpected fondness. It is shockingly... _ nice _ ...to realize that perhaps some people actually  _ do  _ miss him.

Jaxxor dismisses him in short order, and Slav hurries off to make his preparations. He does not wish to waste one more tick than is necessary. He suspects the other agents at the Zesark base feel exactly the same way, because they are almost  _ eager  _ to help him be ready to leave.

Slav hardly cares what they think of him. He’s leaving them. 

He is going  _ home.  _

* * *

 

Slav had read about Earthlings early on in his study of the Alteans, in efforts to find any way to beat them. Earthlings were a prized class of non-cog, known for their hardiness and adaptability to multiple kinds of environments across the galaxy. Supposedly, they were short-lived in comparison to other races, barely making one hundred decafeebs at best, and their maturation and life-cycles were compressed proportionally. 

Slav has read about it, but it is another thing entirely to see it in action. When he had left the Gamara home base over two decafeebs ago, Sven had barely come to his topmost shoulders. Now, even when Slav stretches to his full height, Sven stands half a head again taller than him. And, based on his gangly limbs and awkward proportions that are a clear mark of an adolescent  _ anything  _ throughout the universe, he still has growing to do.

“Slav!” Sven greets him enthusiastically, the moment Slav steps out of his shuttle. The Earthling’s voice has grown deeper, although it cracks a little under his enthusiasm, and still has his now-characteristic gifted Schilese accent. “I don’t remember you being so small!” 

“I have always been this size,” Slav mutters, irritable. He’s actually considered something of a runt amongst Bytor, and being the smallest of his litter had caused him no end of torment amongst his ten litter-mates. 

Sven grins. “I think I’d squish you if I tried to ride on your shoulders now,” he says cheerfully. “That’s okay, I’ll be able to return the favor soon.” And, seemingly to prove his point, he steps forward and wraps Slav up in one of his ridiculous grapple-hugs, lifting Slav clean off the ground in the process. 

Slav is not inherently opposed to physical contact, or even being carried, and he’d more or less adjusted to Sven’s grapples ages ago. But this is a perplexing development anyway, even despite his probabilities. He actually forgets to return the hug, though there is at least a fifty percent chance that is also due to being out of practice, after two decafeebs.

Sven sets him down after a few ticks, still grinning. “Sorry. You’re probably tired after the flight. I just missed you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I did promise to endeavor to choose actions that would not lead to my inherent death,” Slav reminds him.

“Just say thank you, Slav,” Michela grumbles from behind Sven, shaking her head in exasperation, but there’s a slight quirk of a smile on her face too. “Honestly. You’re a real piece of work.” 

“You can’t deny it’s been a lot quieter around here without him,” Serrata says, next to Michela. 

Slav finds that hard to believe. He is  _ quantifiably  _ one of the least noisy agents. 

Michela rolls her eyes, but then says, “Slav, the leader’s given us orders to get your shuttle unloaded and deliver everything back to storage. You’re to debrief now—he’s in the main command room. Sven—you can escort him there.  _ Don’t  _ let him run off to check his lab first.” 

Sven grins at her. “Will do.”

Slav scowls. Two decafeebs away have not stopped anyone from using Sven to babysit him, it seems. The probability of that changing had been low, but Slav had hoped this would be the reality in which that adjusted itself. 

Still, Sven proves to be a satisfactory guide, updating Slav on things that have changed since he was last there as they traverse the base. “We lost some more agents,” he says softly. “Torex and Llorien. The missions went bad...really bad. The Alteans slaughtered them in the name of ‘mercy.’” His voice is bitter at the end.

“I told you that you would not be able to save everyone,” Slav reminds him, though for once he takes no satisfaction in being right. It’s a hard thing to be right about. Sven felt so strongly about saving everyone and making a difference that it’s difficult to watch those beliefs struggle against the weight of reality, even a reality Slav had warned of in advance. 

“I know,” Sven says. “And I know probably even more agents will die before I’m even allowed to join the Guns. I hate that.” He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, though, his expression is full of determination, not resignment. “But I’m gonna keep trying to join anyway. It’s only a few decafeebs off now, and then  _ nobody’s  _ going to die on my watch. No innocents, no agents,  _ nobody.”  _

That is a  _ highly  _ unlikely reality, and even unlikelier is that it’s the one they belong to. But Slav has no interest in ruining Sven’s determination today, not after seeing him for the first time in two decafeebs. So instead he asks, “How is your training progressing?” 

Sven’s eyes light up with enthusiasm at that. “Great! Really great. Serrata finally started teaching me shooting now that I can hold a standard Gun rifle. I’ve been learning some basic swordplay too. I’ve been trying to get Michela to let me study more explosives too, but I think she’s still mad about last time.” 

Slav scowls. The screeching lecture Michela had given him decafeebs ago now, when he’d trained Sven in basic explosive parts while his arms had been broken,  _ still  _ rings in his ears. 

Sven laughs at Slav’s reaction before continuing. “I started doing survival training a couple feebs ago with Xen. He says I’m doing pretty good...better than some newbies. Says I could be better than even some agents in a decafeeb or two.”

“That is certainly impressive,” Slav says, raising an eyebrow. Advanced survival training on a variety of worlds was a necessity for any agent being set up in a listening outpost or scouting position. Xencherak is the undisputed master trainer in the skillset, but a harsh taskmaster, and not given to compliment easily. 

“And when I hit fifteen decafeebs Michela promised I can start training to  _ fly,” _ Sven adds, delighted. “Just basic shuttles and stuff to start, but if I do okay I can advance to the fighter and stealth ships. I can’t wait. I’ve wanted to fly one for  _ decafeebs.” _

Slav knows. He remembers the wonder on Sven’s face when he’d seen the ships in the hangar, after he’d entered it when he wasn’t supposed to. He’s glad Sven will finally get to realize that dream, at least. He deserves it. 

“But mostly what I’ve been doing is strength training and combat practice,” Sven finishes. “Sometimes Katala has me face off against other aspirants. I’m pretty strong.” 

While Slav doesn’t doubt that Sven is skilled for his age and progression level, all he says instead is, “You are very overconfident.” 

“I am not!” Sven says. “I’ll prove it. I bet I can beat  _ you.” _ He stares down at Slav from his new height, challenging. 

Slav blinks at him. “I am a full Gun agent, not an aspirant.” 

“I train against full Gun agents for practice, too,” Sven says. “I challenge you to a sparring match. I bet I can take you. I’m already taller.” 

Slav is tempted to say no. He has no real interest in sparring other than as a necessity and no particular drive to win or lose in practice matches when it comes to combat. The activity has little interest for him.

But Sven looks eager to prove himself. He is probably excited at the prospect of interacting with any of his surrogate caretakers in activities that interest him. It would probably be poor for his development to refuse him. 

And besides, there might be an important lesson to convey, prior to Sven actually taking the field.  _ Height  _ is only one of many factors in the outcome of a match, and believing otherwise could get him killed. Slav has a difficult time resisting instructing Sven’s education further in matters of intellect. And sparring is just another form of teaching.

So he says, “Very well. After I have had a chance to debrief and rest after the journey, I will accept that challenge.”

Sven grins. “Great! You’re on.” 

Slav is certain that he made the correct choice out of all potential options, simply based on Sven’s enthusiasm. After two decafeebs apart, it is hardly unreasonable for him to want to show off where he’s improved. And the child—if he can even still be _called_ a child at this point, at over fourteen decafeebs—is clearly happy with even the prospect of spending time with Slav. There’s so much _life_ to him, so much inquisitiveness and energy.

It reminds Slav yet again that in another reality—a reality where the Earthling children  _ weren’t  _ rescued—Sven would likely be implanted with the  _ hoktril  _ by now _.  _ Passed his first maturation stage, he’s old enough now that it would have its intended effect. All that life, all that enthusiasm, all that desire to protect and prove himself and make things better, all of that would be gone. Sven would have been a lifeless, will-less shell by now. 

It makes a cold chill run down Slav’s spine. He is very,  _ very  _ glad for this reality. 

“Here you go,” Sven says, oblivious to Slav’s thoughts. He gestures to the command center’s doors. “Delivered with no distractions. Though I made sure nobody messed with your lab too much, so you don’t have to worry about that. I put everything back where it belongs if anybody had to take anything.”

It galls Slav to think people had been required to take anything at all, but all of it  _ is  _ technically Gun property. Sven, at least, can be counted on to know exactly how everything should be organized. “Good,” Slav says. “I do not need to spend my first quintent back fixing it.”

Sven nods. “No, ‘cause you’ll have to spend it sparring me. Don’t forget.”

“I never forget anything,” Slav says, a touch offended.

Sven grins. “Of course you don’t. I’m supposed to go help Michela and Serrata and the other agents with all your supplies now. I’ll make sure they put all that stuff away right, too. See you later!” And he heads back the way they’d come.

Slav shakes his head, but he actually feels a trace of  _ amusement  _ as he pushes open the command center doors and enters.

His debrief with Jaxxor is blessedly straightforward and simple. He can give more accurate reports on his upgrades of the other Gun bases when face to face, without the inherent fear of a transmission being hacked and listened in on. He runs through each of his improvements and the anticipated increased percentages in effectiveness, as well as a rundown of missions and Altean movements in those sectors. 

“You did well,” Jaxxor says, once Slav finishes. “You’ll take the next quintent to get settled back in here. I want you to spend the next spicolian movement or so looking over this base’s systems to make sure everything is in good shape. Then you’ll be rotated back into missions. The Alteans have been more active in this quadrant recently. I want to know why.”

“We saw increased activity in the other quadrants as well,” Slav agrees. “Though we could not find their reasons at the time.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t fare well, which is why we’ll need your expertise here,” the leader says. “If the Alteans have a goal, we need to stop it. Get some rest, Slav, you’ll be back to work soon. Dismissed.”

Slav salutes with all four of his right arms, and heads for the door. The prospect of more work doesn’t bother him—it’s comforting, in a way. It’s nice to have an idea of what he’ll be doing next, and a goal to work towards.

But that is something to think about later. First, he has an important promise to keep. 

* * *

 

The next morning, base-time, Slav rises bright and early. He’d checked over his lab last night and was fairly satisfied with what he’d found, so he feels more than confident that everything is in its proper place and probabilities are in the best condition they can be as he heads for the training decks. 

Slav is not as frequent a visitor to these areas as other Gun agents. He stops by for the exact number of prerequisite vargas that he calculates are necessary to keep a Bytor of his size and disposition in shape and to maintain necessary physical skills. But he has little interest in making himself physically stronger or more adept, not when he does not calculate it increasing his probabilities for survival to any great degree. And he has little interest in physical activity recreationally. His intellect is his real strength. 

But he’s familiar enough with the training decks to head for the sparring area. It’s equipped with mats and equipment for practicing martial activities, but there’s an open section where agents can face off against each other with enough space to really move. 

Slav hasn’t used it often. Most Gun agents aren’t interested in sparring with him, and he has no interest in the practice as a general rule. Physically, he’s amongst the weaker members of the organization; for more advanced martial artists, he does not present a worthwhile challenge. It is no real surprise to him that Sven believes he can take on and defeat Slav handily. He has probably absorbed the assumption from his trainers.

The Earthling in question is already there, and waves as Slav enters the room. “Yoo-hoo! Over here!” he calls. 

Slav heads over. Sven has already staked out one of the open mats for practice, although at this varga the training room is mostly empty. He’s already dressed in a Gun training uniform and looks to have already run through a number of warm-up exercises. 

“You made it!” Sven says. 

“I said I would,” Slav points out. He is not given to making promises he cannot keep. 

“Well, thanks for sparring with me anyway,” Sven says. “I know you don’t do it a lot.”

Slav shrugs. It’s not an incorrect observation. But he has no other duties today, and he did promise. 

“Katala isn’t here to judge the match, so we go until someone yields,” Sven continues. From the confidence in his voice, Slav can all but hear  _ until  _ you  _ yield. _ “Sound good?”

“These are acceptable terms to me,” Slav agrees, taking his place on the far side of the mat. 

Sven grins. “Great. May the best Gun win.”

“You aren’t a Gun yet,” Slav points out. 

“I’m going to be.” 

_ “Maybe.  _ With a distinct probability trending towards the positive suggesting that you will. But it is not  _ certain.” _

“I’m going to be,” Sven says confidently. Slav sighs in exasperation, but doesn’t push it further. Sven can be stubborn. “On the count of three we start. One...two... _ three!”  _

The Earthling immediately darts forward in a rush, doubtless hoping to overwhelm Slav with superior size. But where Slav lacks in height and in strength, he more than makes up for in agility. He easily darts out of the way, quite literally curling up and rolling to the far side of the training mat, before regaining his feet.

Sven looks surprised, but spins around quickly to face Slav again. This time his approach is more cautious, now that he’s aware of Slav’s speed. But Slav still nimbly darts away from him, spinning or leaping around the sparring mat out of harm’s way.

“Oh, come on!” Sven finally yells, scowling a little. “That’s no fair.”

“A fight against the Alteans will never actually be fair,” Slav points out, amused despite himself. “In a real combat situation I will have more probabilities to survive if I keep my distance, avoid injury, and snipe from far away.”

“This isn’t a fight against Alteans,” Sven says, scowl growing deeper. “It’s a sparring match. Maybe I can’t hit you, but we’ll be here all  _ quintent  _ if you don’t fight back either.”

“That is true,” Slav agrees. So the next time Sven comes at him, when he nimbly ducks aside, Slav gives him a sharp jab with his second right hand in the side. Sven makes an indignant yelp and turns to swipe at Slav, but Slav is already out of range again. 

Slav pulls off the same maneuver three more times with great success, each time Sven gets close. At first he can see Sven’s frustration with the tactic, but by the third strike he can also tell Sven is beginning to understand it, too. His expression grows more serious, and his scowl disappears, to be replaced by something observant and determined. 

When Slav darts around Sven for the fifth time, Sven strikes. He doesn’t try to deflect—instead, he grabs Slav’s third left arm as Slav rushes past. 

Slav’s momentum grinds to a halt as he’s hauled back, and with the efficiency of long vargas of training, Sven secures his opponent in a grapple. This isn’t one of his ridiculous hugs, either—this is a legitimate, martial chokehold, intended to capture and hold an opponent. Sven’s even smart enough to adjust it to account for Slav’s many arms, pinning the topmost four with his own and twisting so that the lowermost four have little purchase for a counterattack. 

Slav will give him credit where it’s due. Sven’s instincts are quite sharp. His overconfidence isn’t without reason.

Sven’s panting hard, but Slav can all but hear him grinning as he applies pressure on the chokehold. “Gotcha,” he says. “Just yield and—”

Slav smacks him in the head with his tail. 

People forget about Bytor tails a lot, he’s observed over a period of decafeebs. They are sturdy, thick, and moderately prehensile, due to thousands of years of evolution as an arboreal race clinging to the vast branches of their homeworld. It makes them excellent bludgeoning weapons, but other races always seem more concerned with a Bytor’s eight hands. 

Sven is apparently no different. He yelps in surprise at the strike, and his grip loosens as he staggers sideways. Slav presses his advantage immediately, as is tactically sound. He immediately swarms up the Earthling’s torso, wrapping himself around head and shoulders and constricting.

Still off balance, Sven crashes to the mats. He scrambles madly at Slav, attempting to pull him off. But another result of arboreal evolution from clinging to treetops thousands of years ago is that Bytor are  _ notoriously  _ difficult to unfasten from almost anything, once they’ve found a secure hold. Sven hardly manages to budge him. 

Slav applies just a little more pressure to the constricting grapple. Not enough to hurt, of course—he hardly wants Sven to be injured. But just enough to encourage admitting defeat at a more reasonable rate.

“Alright, alright!” Sven gasps. “I yield! You win!” 

Slav releases the grapple immediately, slithering out from around Sven’s shoulders and climbing to his feet on the mat. Sven remains sprawled on his back, gasping as he tries to recover his breath.

Slav gives him a dobosh, before asking dryly, “And what have you learned?”

“Never trust anyone again when they say Bytors are weaker in combat,” Sven groans. 

Slav can’t help but chuckle at that, before pressing, “And?”

Sven thinks about this for a moment, before saying more seriously, “Height doesn’t make a difference in combat by itself. Technique is important.”

“Good. And?”

“And an opponent may have more than one way to fight, besides conventionally.” Sven rubs his head. “Your tail  _ hurts.” _

“It is supposed to. Anything else?”

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you,” Sven admits. “Sorry about that.” He finally sits up, and to Slav’s surprise, he laughs. “You won fair and square. These bruises won’t let me forget that.” 

Slav snorts. “In truth, in a match against a skilled opponent, your estimations would have been accurate fifty-seven percent of the time. The majority of my combat abilities come from agility and avoidance. An expert combatant would know how to reduce those advantages. In matches of strength and skill, I am statistically inferior.” 

He smirks in the Bytor way, more with his eyes than his beak. “But as you said, you were not expecting me to do well, so you were easy to defeat.”

“I guess I deserved it.” Sven looks sheepish. “Well. At least I learned something. Do you think we could spar again when I’m a little better at this?” 

At least the experience has humbled him. That can only save his life in the future—even if future spars will almost certainly end with Slav’s defeat. “Certainly.”

They do spar more often, after that. Not constantly—depending on Slav’s priorities, or missions, or after taking injury, it simply isn’t feasible. But on average, once every feeb or so following, they will meet in the morning for a few combat rounds. 

It’s good for Slav, in a way. It keeps him on his toes, and gives him more practice in combat, outside his usual training. He does notice a quantifiable increase in his personal strength over time, however slight. Sometimes Sven will even pull others into it, and those become unusual challenges. Slav is surprised to find it actually becomes almost... _ entertaining,  _ enjoyable even. 

Sven loses his first few matches again, still a novice to combat. But as he grows in both size and strength, and in ability, he rapidly begins to outpace Slav, until the victory is his every time. Eventually the sparring matches are more of a recreational activity than anything else, a habit neither of them see fit to break even if the outcome is all but guaranteed already.

Sven never does forget his lessons from the first match, though. His overconfidence in combat decreases by a margin of at least seventy-six percent.

It’s a satisfactory enough conclusion to the lesson for Slav.

* * *

 

Life goes on as it always has. Upgrades are made, missions are completed, lives are narrowly saved or, try as they might, unfortunately lost. They make little headway against the Alteans, but they do slowly but surely manage to carve out a little more of the Altean territory to replace it with free worlds again. It is not fast progress, but it is, by any calculation, still progress.

And yet, while everything falls within comfortable projections and probabilities, Slav finds he sees the passage of time entirely differently than he used to. 

Bytor are not the most long lived species in the universe, but their lifespans are still comfortably extended ones. Slav himself is considered merely a young adult at seventy-six decafeebs, with many more decafeebs to come, assuming this reality is the reality in which he continues to survive Gun missions. He rarely notices the passage of a decafeeb or two under normal circumstances; there is simply no need to bother.

But Earthlings count every decafeeb they have to their name, and Sven is no exception. And Slav finds himself astounded with Sven’s progress in just a few short decafeebs. 

At fifteen decafeebs, as promised, Sven begins his piloting lessons. Byroc starts him slowly, using basic shuttles, but it soon becomes apparent this is a waste of both Sven’s time and everyone else’s. 

Even so young—nearly infantile by some species’ standards—Sven is exceptionally skilled when it comes to piloting. He takes to it as naturally as breathing. They quickly move him up to stealth ships and fighters, and when those still prove too simple, Slav adds him to the register for Gun simulation combat flights. Nobody argues, especially after Sven manages to out-fly even some full Gun agents in the simulators. And Sven loves every tick of it, once he’s finally allowed to fly the ships that had set him wandering through the base so long ago.

By the time he reaches adulthood, Sven at the controls of any Gun ship will be a terrifying sight to behold—for the Alteans. Already, Slav can see the calculations and probabilities repeatedly concluding in Sven’s favor over those of his opponents. He has no reason to doubt the Earthling will be effective when the time comes.

By sixteen decafeebs, Sven has improved globally in nearly all aspects. His marksmanship is acceptable enough that Slav calculates he will easily pass those tests, once attempting to become a true Gun of Gamara. Although he’s long since had a universal translator installed, his natural Altean has improved to almost perfect fluency, and he is capable of reading the language as well. He’s begun martial training with a variety of non-firearm weapons, but shows particular skill with swords, especially the wrist-mounted energy weapons many Guns have in their combat suits. He shows promise in other vital skillsets for Gamara operatives, from stealth to scouting and spying to even explosives—once Michela finally permits him to study them.

Most of all, Sven proves beyond the most unlikely probability that even as an Earthling, physically weaker or slower or shorter-lived compared to other agents’ races, he is determined enough to have still earned his keep. He works hard for each of his achievements, and never expects special treatment when learning, even friendly as he is with most Gun agents. He is never given favoritism—if anything, Slav suspects some of his trainers push him harder than they do other aspirants—but Sven never quits. 

It is as if he says,  _ I may be weaker and slower, but I am more enduring, and I will not back down for anything,  _ with every strike at a practice target, with every training scenario defeated. And the others, even those that had originally doubted, see it and finally begin to realize. 

Slav finds himself surprisingly satisfied at those results. He had calculated that it was possible from the beginning, of course. But there is something  _ especially  _ rewarding about being  _ right  _ here where the others had been wrong.

There are other changes, of course. At sixteen, Sven is a full head taller than Slav now, who just barely comes to his shoulder. Even knowing by now the rate at which Earthlings grow, Slav still finds himself astounded that only five decafeebs ago Sven had barely come to  _ his  _ topmost shoulders. Having to look up at him constantly just to converse with him is vexing. 

And as Sven ages, he grows quieter, more focused. While as curious and as observant as ever, he’s more content as time passes to merely listen and observe. He becomes more and more like a  _ soldier,  _ an agent in training, willing to follow another or take orders. He remains friendly and cheerful with most of the Gun agents, many of whom he’s come to know on a first-name basis and several in particular that are all but surrogate parental figures to him. But when it comes to Gun work, and training, and the mission, Sven develops a laser focus and a quiet intensity that only serve to enhance his skills and determination.

At least, that is around most others. Slav observes over time that although Sven becomes a littler quieter even around Slav, he still maintains the same inquisitiveness and willingness to ask questions that he always has. He isn’t afraid to ask Slav for his opinions (or just as often, his probability calculations), and he continues to respect and believe in Slav’s answers. 

If Slav is completely honest with himself, he’s glad for that. When Sven had been an Earthling child, his incessant and inane questions had been an obnoxious waste of time. But Slav has grown accustomed to them, and like likes that at least  _ one  _ person values his opinions (and calculations) on matters. 

Even if he  _ still  _ can’t get Sven to acknowledge that the medical biotech lab and infirmary is not a ‘space hospital.’ He’s almost positive that Sven calls it that now on _ purpose. _

At seventeen decafeebs, Sven’s build begins to catch up with his height, as he finally begins to lose his leaner, lanky adolescent frame and put on significant muscle. He works hard every day to increase his strength, devoting vargas at a time to a rigorous training schedule. And while he’ll still lose in a contest of strength against an Altean or Schilean, Slav suspects that for an Earthling he’ll be quite powerful. 

And by now it is abundantly clear that already, before even becoming an agent, Sven is  _ meant  _ for this. Despite being theoretically outmatched against many of his fellow aspirants, and even his full Gun trainers, Sven proves to be be a natural when it comes to combat. His instincts are exceptional in a fight, and combined with his clever technique it earns him a number of victories in his spars. But he never again lets his skill go to his head, remembering his lessons with Slav, and he never underestimates his opponents. 

And though he’s skilled as a combatant on his own, he also works well with others in team training exercises as he learns to work in classic cells with two to five other operatives. Sven has an unusual ability to both lead and follow, depending on what is necessary for the mission. While usually more content to follow, from Slav’s observation, he’s ready and willing to take point if a sudden change to mock mission parameters requires it.

Sven becomes quite skilled at finding... _unconventional_ solutions to problems as well. His training scenarios frequently include such oddities as finding different, unintended routes to the goal, to unusual techniques in spars, to using his weaponry in unconventional ways. The trainers had been absolutely baffled when, in a mock firearm gunfight against a second team, Sven actually threw his own disabled firearm at an opponent. The opponent, too, had been baffled, and it had given Sven plenty of time to overwhelm him and knock him out of the challenge. 

The trainers had lectured him, but while Sven had listened patiently to their insistence that he not take unnecessary risks or disarm himself, he had ultimately been unrepentant. 

“A fight with an Altean won’t be fair,” he says. “And it won’t be predictable. Anything that gives me an edge and lets me save the rest of my team is worth it.”

Which is when Slav realizes that Sven had taken more than one lesson from their spar several decafeebs ago, now. 

At eighteen decafeebs, Sven is permitted to run the trials to become a Gun agent. There’s no question of his loyalty, but all Gun potentials must be fit and capable of performing under duress and in a variety of situations, and the trials are designed to press a candidate almost to their limit. The Guns are already under enough pressure from the Alteans. They can’t afford agents who will crack under any more of it. 

The quintent before he is scheduled to begin, Sven visits Slav, and asks a question he hasn’t asked in almost four feebs now. “Slav—do you think I can be a Gun agent?”

“As if you need to ask me,” Slav says dryly. “You are certainly determined enough to ensure it is a one hundred percent certainty.”

“I want to know what you think anyway,” Sven says. “You’re good at guessing this sort of thing.” 

“I do not  _ guess,”  _ Slav says, affronted. “I  _ predict,  _ using a variety of variables and mathematical calculations.” 

But Sven only smiles a little, to show he’s teasing. His smiles have gotten less wide and exuberant over the decafeebs as he’s grown, but no less meaningful. 

And Slav, to his continual surprise, finds he’s grown in his own way as well. Nine decafeebs ago such a jest would have infuriated him with the sheer  _ inaccuracy  _ of the statement. Now he merely stares Sven down with a deadpan expression, recognizing the joke for what it is and letting it pass. 

“Fine,” he says. “If you are so uncertain, I calculate based on all of your efforts that there is a ninety-five point six seven seven percent chance you will be a Gun agent at the end of these trials. This will almost certainly be the reality in which you succeed.”

He doesn’t try to hide the possibility of failure, however slight, nor does Sven question him on it. Slav has never, ever tried to hide the potential outcomes from Sven. A full nine decafeebs later, Sven still has the same trust in Slav’s forthrightness that he had when he was a slave child on an Altean Alpha-Galax transport shuttle. 

“Ninety-five is pretty good,” Sven says, with noticeable relief. 

“Ninety-five  _ point six seven seven,” _ Slav corrects. 

“That’s almost ninety-six,” Sven adds. “That’s good. I can do this, then. Thanks, Slav.” And he drags Slav into a grateful hug—considerably more bone-crushing, now that he has enough physical strength to go hand to hand with a Korflex agent—before setting him down again. 

Sven takes to his trials as naturally as breathing. He skillfully defeats opponents in his combat matches with bare hands, firearms and assorted melee weapons alike. He finds the clever hints and tricks to change course for assigned mission goals. He doesn’t hesitate to strike to kill against modified sentry-bots designed to resemble Altean soldiers and gladiators, with a fierce intensity that is almost alarming.

As the agent that so long ago suggested Sven for the organization, Slav is there to witness all of it. Although the trials can be very dangerous—and, for the foolish or rash, potentially lethal—Slav is not particularly concerned. A little voice in the back of his head whispers insidiously of the four point three two three percent chance for failure—a value that fluctuates within a percent, depending on the task at hand. But despite his usual penchant for listening to the disastrous negative, this time Slav refuses to acknowledge it.

_ This  _ is  _ the reality where Sven succeeds in the goal he set for himself,  _ Slav tells himself firmly.  _ The negative values are improbable when faced with an Earthling’s determination.  _

And he’s right. Sven passes exceptionally—just as Slav had ultimately predicted.

Despite his quieter, more focused nature, Sven’s expression is jubilant as he is officially inducted into the Guns of Gamara the following quintent, along with several other successful aspirants. The leader hands him his official uniform after a short but concise speech about the brotherhood of the Guns of Gamara, and their dedication to true freedom throughout the universe. Sven’s hands actually shake a little as he accepts the gray and black space-capable uniform, tailored precisely to his Earthling build, and the helm with its green stylized ‘V’—the symbol of the Guns of Gamara. 

“I was wrong about you,” Jaxxor says, abruptly. 

Slav is surprised by this. He has been to many of these ceremonies by now, mostly because it’s mandatory to show a united front, and Jaxxor has never broken from tradition like this before.

Sven looks equally surprised, and blinks. “Sir?”

“I was wrong to doubt your abilities, or your right to be here,” Jaxxor says gruffly. “You were meant to be an agent. Anyone can see that. You have the skill to survive but the  _ drive  _ to make a difference.” He taps Sven’s new helmet as he finishes handing over the uniform. “That symbol rightfully belongs to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sven says, still blinking in surprise. “But I can hardly take all the credit.” He glances over the leader’s shoulder, towards Slav, standing amongst the other agents for the ceremony.

Jaxxor glances back towards Slav as well, and rolls his eyes, but says with exasperated amusement, “No, I suppose not. I suppose relentless persistence is a good thing for the organization, too.”

Slav stares back, indifferent.

Jaxxor turns back to Sven, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Welcome, Sven, to the Guns of Gamara.”

Sven gathers his uniform in one hand and salutes sharply with the other. As the leader moves on to the next aspirant, Sven catches Slav’s eye, and mouths,  _ thank you,  _ before looking down at his uniform reverently. 

There is at least an eight-seven point six five percent chance that the emotion Slav feels at that very moment is  _ pride,  _ and for someone not himself. 

It’s strange, but not an altogether unwelcome feeling. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually moving so I won't have internet for a bit until that gets set up. So I thought I'd throw this up first :)

Despite Sven’s induction to the Guns of Gamara, it seems as though nothing much changes, at least at first.

Being a newer agent, Sven is still sent on relatively straightforward and simple missions, usually with more experienced agents skilled in whatever the mission’s objectives are. The goal is to give practical experience without risking the lives of fresh soldiers. Inexperienced agents simply cannot be expected to perform at the same standards veterans do. 

But it does mean Slav and Sven do not work in the same circles. Slav is often sent to other bases for technology upgrades, and the missions he is sent on usually involve complex stratagems or intelligence acquisition. Sven’s talents make him far more practical to use in raids on Altean transports or in guerilla missions harrying Altean bases, and sometimes in stealth-based missions. There is no strategic reason to assign them together, and so Jaxxor doesn’t. 

That in and of itself does not bother Slav so much. There is logic to Jaxxor’s choices and strategy. That is why he is the leader. 

But Slav will grudgingly admit he had been inexplicably anxious when Sven had been deployed on his first mission. It was a now standard strike at an Altean transport shuttle, not unlike the one Sven had been first rescued from—though this one was confirmed to have foodstuffs, and not slaves of any variety. 

Transport raids are routine, and after Slav’s strategic and technological improvements decafeebs ago, rarely fatal. The Gun agents Sven had been sent with have exceptionally high success rates that are repeatedly and quantifiably proven. And Sven is skilled, as his own trials results and Slav’s predictions can attest to. But even so, Slav had spent three vargas inexplicably sorting and re-sorting power crystals by exact terahertz frequency, to soothe his nerves and (maybe) affect variables in the probability of the team’s success. It’s a nervous ritual he hasn’t done in decafeebs, not since leaving his home planet. 

Sven survives that mission, of course. He isn’t even injured. According to all reports, he’d taken down two gladiators and an Altean soldier himself. His first mission is an unmitigated success. Slav is happy for him—but also relieved, even if he never admits to it. 

Sven’s missions continue to be successful, as feebs go on. He participates in four more supplies raids, each successful. He joins a large cell for his first attack on an Altean substation, destroying transmissions that allow a Gun fighter squad to take out multiple Altean battle cruisers before they know the Gamarans are on them. He joins Xencherack on a two-movement mission on an Altean-controlled planet to find weaknesses in their defenses while camping out in the wilderness. After his first feeb, he is even taken on a rescue mission, intercepting a  _ hoktril- _ transport. None of those slaves had been Earthlings, but Sven still proves invaluable convincing them to follow the Guns to freedom, able to speak to them in a way only a fellow slave could understand. 

No, by all metrics Sven’s missions are  _ incredibly  _ successful, even if they uncover some...darker traits, too. Slav has not yet witnessed it personally in battle, but other agents that have worked with Sven report a viciously focused, intense dislike for the Alteans, even by Gun circumstances. No Gun ever has any reason to  _ like  _ Alteans; that is the very reason all of them are there. But by all accounts, Sven’s normally quieter, easy-going nature becomes much harder and more aggressive the moment he is in proximity of Alteans.

That doesn’t surprise Slav, though. Sven had shown other tendencies towards the same aggressive dislike of the Alteans even as a freshly rescued child. His intentions for the Guns may be  _ mostly  _ noble, however ‘nobility’ is figured, with a genuine desire to save others and make things better. But Slav suspects there are other things buried beneath the surface not yet addressed that Sven has yet to deal with. Trauma and vengeance are not uncommon among the Guns of Gamara, either. 

Still, success is success, and Sven is certainly more successful than Slav. Not that Slav’s missions fail regularly. Slav continues to have a notable eighty-seven point six five three percent success rate in assignments. Where there are failures, it is usually the part of his assigned partners for the duration of the missions.

It is those assigned partners that are truly the problem. In keeping with exhaustingly predictable expectation, most agents Slav is assigned to work with are difficult to train, rarely bother to listen, and almost never work with him again. The rare few that do curse constantly under their breath, and complain fouly about his ‘control-freak’ tendencies and that he’s ‘quiznaking  _ crazy _ ’ when they think he can’t hear. 

It is very hard to find good help, these days.

But despite Slav’s missions being as irritable as always, life goes on. And despite Slav’s initial concerns for Sven’s well being (and the little, insidious voice in the back of his head that always counts out the chances of awful deaths and crueler fates every time Sven is dispatched on a new mission), Sven continues to earn his keep among the Guns. He survives his first decafeeb with only a few minor injuries and a dozen successful missions under his belt. He learns from his mistakes and makes efforts to always get stronger. 

Things go very well.

But then, inevitably, they start to change.

* * *

 

Slav has calculated for and expected the inevitable disaster happening on one of Sven’s missions. He has  _ always  _ known that sooner or later the probabilities would turn poorly, and something bad would happen.

But a decafeeb and a half after Sven joins the organization, the first time Sven’s team experiences a casualty, a deep sense of dread pangs through all three of Slav’s hearts all the same. 

Michela is the one to notify Slav when it happens, slamming open the door to his lab hard enough to make him snap a bit of crystal plating in two. He scowls, fully intending to tell her  _ exactly  _ how much effort she has just undone, but she interrupts him. “Sven’s mission failed.”

Slav abandons the broken crystal plating immediately. “But there was an eighty-two point two seven five percent chance of success!” 

“Far as we can tell, it was a trap,” Michela says curtly, turning on her heels and heading right back out the door. Slav follows after, pausing only to lock the lab behind him. “Sven’s alive,” she adds, as Slav opens his mouth to ask, “But they lost Zerrin, and Korvik is hurt badly. Sven was injured too, but he’s at least conscious, and there’s no question that he’ll survive.” 

Slav feels what is unquestionably  _ relief  _ at the knowledge that Sven is alive, even if the news itself is extremely poor. The loss—or potential loss—of the other agents is unfortunate, but does not fill him with the same sense of alarm as it would if it were Sven. 

Perhaps that is cruel, or uncommon. Slav has little experience with these things enough to know, and at the moment, he hardly cares. 

Still, even if Sven has a certainty of living—and Slav  _ will  _ recalculate to be sure, once he has the data—this will be difficult for him in other ways. “Even if that is the case, I doubt he is doing well at the moment,” Slav observes flatly.

Michela nods grimly. “The kid’s real good, but losing any agent hits him hard. And now he’s blaming himself for it. I tried to tell him otherwise but he’s too distraught to listen.” She glances at Slav. “But you have a way of getting through to him somehow. Ancients only know why. You speak the same kind of crazy, maybe.”

“We both speak common,” Slav says dryly. “Or perhaps Earthling, or Altean.” 

“You know what I mean,” Michela says, scowling. “He listens to you, for some crazy reason. So talk to him.” 

“I cannot promise success,” Slav says. “But I will certainly try.”

Michela nods curtly and leads the way to the infirmary.

As predicted, Sven is awake when Slav finally reaches his room in the infirmary. There are several beds, but only Sven’s is occupied. Korvik is probably in an intensive care unit, based on Michela’s report. The bed is raised enough to let Sven sit up easily and comfortably. His left arm is bound in a splint and sling, and there are more bandages wrapped around his torso. 

He doesn’t even notice when they enter—just continues to stare at his knees in front of him. Slav has never seen such a dejected, defeated look on Sven’s face, not in the ten and a half decafeebs he’s been with the Guns of Gamara. Not even when they had lost other agents he’d known and bonded with. 

This is going to be very difficult indeed. Slav is almost immediately uncomfortable with the situation. Michela is not entirely wrong; Sven does have a consistent pattern of listening to Slav and taking his advice. But this situation requires more than just _advice._ This clearly strays into very emotional territory, and even more than ten decafeebs later, Slav still has very little experience or ability with _that._

Still, as completely out of his depth as he is with this, Slav is still willing to make an attempt. He doesn’t like that look on Sven’s face. That expression  _ resolutely  _ does not belong there. Not on someone whose entire reason for joining the Guns of Gamara had been for a chance at hope and change. 

Besides, from the sounds of it, Michela and the others have already tried from the ‘emotions’ angle anyway. He certainly can’t make anything  _ worse. _

“I’m back, Sven. I brought Slav,” Michela says. “He was worried about you and wanted to see if you were okay.”

This is not  _ strictly  _ true, but it’s close enough that Slav doesn’t argue the minor details. Especially since it causes a reaction—Sven looks up from his knees, and blinks once at them, slowly. 

“Oh,” he says after a moment. His voice is hoarse, probably from yelling. “Slav. You didn’t have to...I’m fine.” He swallows. “Better than the others.” 

“I do not know the others as well as I know you,” Slav says bluntly. “Besides, even I intended to remain in my lab, which is a zero-percent probability to begin with, I doubt Michela would have permitted it.” 

Sven chuckles just slightly, but it’s tired and humorless, more instinct than anything else. Michela shoots Slav a dirty look, but then says, “I’ll leave you two to chat for a bit. I need to take care of some other things. But you call me if you need me, Sven. Or if you’re tired of dealing with  _ this  _ guy.”

“Okay,” Sven says softly. He barely seems to notice when she leaves.

_ Possibly shock, _ Slav observes, noting Sven’s slower reaction times than usual.  _ Unless this is some form of Earthling mourning that I don’t know of yet.  _

Sven doesn’t say anything, so Slav busies himself by reaching for the holopad assigned to Sven’s condition and flicking through the prognosis. In addition to the broken arm, the bandages around his torso indicate several broken ribs, and there appear to be a nasty series of burns from an explosion gone awry on his right side. Those are predicted to clear up with little to no scarring, and the arm and ribs should be functional again in a matter of six spicolian movements or so. Sven’s chances of a full recovery are easily over ninety percent. That, at least, is reassuring. 

By the time Slav finishes recalculating those probabilities for his own peace of mind, Sven still hasn’t said anything. So Slav busies himself cleaning up the rest of the room instead, arranging things just so, re-calibrating other holopads, and generally leaving the place better than it was before.

Ten doboshes later he’s finished and Sven  _ still  _ hasn’t said anything, which is certainly out of character according to ten decafeebs of observation. So Slav finally sighs, settles himself comfortably on the bed next to Sven’s, and says, “Well? Are you going to talk or not?”

Sven stares at him in surprise. “What? What’s there to talk about?”

“You are upset,” Slav says. “You talk when you are upset. There is a ninety-five percent certainty of this. I have observed it over a period of decafeebs. So talk.” 

Sven shakes his head and stares at his knees. “Like I said. What’s to talk about? I...I screwed up. And now people are dead, and it’s my fault.”

Ah. Now this is something Slav can work with. He crosses all four arm pairs, and asks, “But is it really your fault?”

“Of course it is,” Sven whispers. “I promised nobody was going to die on my watch. I  _ promised.  _ But we lost Zerrin. Korvik could still die. The mission failed.  _ I  _ failed.” He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Were you the commanding officer on the mission?” 

Sven’s eyes blink open. “N...no.”

“Was your assignment specifically to save or protect those individuals?”

“We’re supposed to as Gun agents!”

“But was that your  _ assignment?” _

“I...no. The assignment was data recovery.” Sven frowns. “But that still failed too. After all that...and for nothing.”

“I am not disputing that,” Slav says, waving the argument away with his top right arm. “But you were the junior agent on the mission. You certainly cannot be held accountable for failures.”

“I should have seen it coming anyway,” Sven says. His right hand clenches, and there’s more anger in his voice now, but it seems directed at himself. “I should have figured something was up. I should’ve saved people. That’s what I wanted to  _ do.  _ That’s why I’m  _ here.  _ But I couldn’t even…”

“Korvik was the commanding officer, yes?” Slav asks. 

“Yes. But he got hurt, and I couldn’t—”

Slav cuts him off. “Korvik has thirty-seven decafeebs of experience as a Gun agent.”

“I know that, and because of me the Guns might not have a veter—”

“Korvik has more than  _ twenty four times  _ the experience you do,” Slav cuts him off again, “But you expect to perform better as an agent than a soldier that has been active longer than you have existed?” 

Sven bristles. “It’s not Korvik’s fault.” 

“Then it can hardly be yours,” Slav concludes. 

Sven looks dazed at that—and more than a little disbelieving.  _ Perhaps a different approach,  _ Slav decides. “Tell me what happened on the mission,” he directs, not unkindly. “If I have more detail, I can provide an exact analysis.”

Sven hesitates, but after a moment he nods. “Al….alright.” 

And he does talk about the mission, in excruciating, bloody detail. The mission parameters had been simple: sneak aboard a substation used for Altean transport ships to dock, repair, and offload cargo, and download the manifests. Knowing Altean ship schedules would provide the Guns with valuable intel that would help determine what ships to attack and which ones to track. Such missions were normally routine and required only a small cell of Gun agents—usually three to four. Stealth was paramount, and a large combat force would not be needed.

But Sven’s description of the event is not standard. The team of three had boarded the station and been permitted to make it to the database rooms before being assaulted. The Alteans had known they were there from the beginning. Zerrin, an agent of some seven or eight decafeebs’ worth of experience, had taken point in the mission to scout ahead. He had been shot and killed from an ambush position before even realizing they were under attack, and was dead before he even hit the ground. Sven had witnessed it first hand.

“I wanted to go to him,” Sven says softly. “I wanted to help. But his biorhythms were already still, and Korvik said we had to run.”

Slav wants to point out that it was the exactly correct action to take given the circumstances. But Sven’s descriptions come easier now, and he does not wish to interrupt. Not if it makes something already so hard for Sven even more difficult.

So he listens and quietly analyzes as Sven describes the way the mission is abandoned. How Korvik had given the order to retreat back to the ship. How the Alteans had already cut them off, expecting the Gun agents to run. How the enemy had tried to capture the two remaining agents—probably, Slav thinks, with the hopes of scanning their minds for Gun intel prior to execution or  _ hoktril- _ pacification. Based on the way Sven’s voice trembles a little as he describes how hard the Alteans had tried to take him alive, he’d recognized the same thing. A rebellious Earthling was still valuable as a slave if it could have the will taken from it. 

The fight out is difficult, by Sven’s descriptions. Nearly impossible, by Slav’s calculations. Korvik had been badly injured resisting capture, and the Alteans had become more violent when they realized their would-be captives would not come so easily. Altean protocol states that preservation of life is supposedly the highest priority, but Slav has never known them to shy away from killing if the alternative is permitting ‘evil’ beings loose in the universe again. Sven’s own injuries had come when he’d hurled himself into the fray in a desperate attempt to protect his superior officer, taking the brunt of a strike that would have been lethal to Korvik. 

Foolishness, in Slav’s opinion—reckless, impulsive, and in almost ninety-two percent of all realities, an action that  _ should  _ have gotten him killed. He is  _ very  _ glad this is one of those minuscule realities where that had not happened. 

In the end, escape only succeeds thanks to a few well-placed explosives that had been hastily set up to cover their exit, once the mission had clearly been blown. Or  _ mostly  _ well-placed explosives, at any rate. Korvik had been injured enough that Sven had been forced to help him walk, and they hadn’t quite escaped the blast radius in time. That explained Sven’s burns, at least.

But escape had been successful, if narrowly. Sven had been forced to pilot the stealth ship back to base. But he’d been skilled enough to lose the Alteans, and smart enough to make sure he wasn’t found in other ways. He’d gotten Korvik back in time to maybe still be saved. 

“But I couldn’t save Zerrin,” Sven finishes bitterly. “I couldn’t get Korvik out of there fast enough to keep him from getting even more hurt by the explosions. We couldn’t even get the intel. I messed up.”

“Ridiculous,” Slav says. 

Sven stares at him, shocked. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting such bluntness. 

Well,  _ good.  _ Perhaps this will make him listen more than he did with anyone else. 

“You realize,” Slav says, “that what you described is nearly impossible? You realize there are only about one percent of realities in which you escaped at all—and only a twelve percent chance that  _ this  _ reality would be that reality, based on those factors?”

“But Zerrin didn’t make it,” Sven says.

“That is unfortunate,” Slav agrees, “But the three of you escaping would have had an even  _ smaller  _ chance of success. Perhaps point one two percent at  _ best.”  _

Sven stares at him, brows furrowing on confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Slav sighs. But for once, Sven’s lack of understanding isn’t frustrating so much as it is sad. “Alteans are not foolish opponents. That is why they are so dangerous. That trap—and make no mistake, there is a ninety-nine point two percent  _ certainly  _ that it was a trap—was intended to kill or capture all of you. Alteans are very successful in their endeavors. They are skilled tacticians. The fact that you escaped at all borders on the impossible.”

More than even Sven realizes, perhaps. Slav does not voice the exact calculations; Sven never likes ‘bad’ sounding odds, and in his current state, they would do him no good. But Slav is secretly very grateful that Sven was the one to survive with a fighting chance. 

Perhaps it’s cruel to discount the others so quickly, but the alternatives Slav can so easily calculate are worse by far. Now that he has all the data, there was an eighty-five percent certainty that Sven had died an agonizing, violent death, or had been taken and pacified with a  _ hoktril,  _ in other realities. As the most inexperienced member of the team, Sven was the most likely to die of any of them, and—

_ No,  _ Slav counters himself sharply.  _ That possibility has collapsed. That is not this reality. That will  _ never  _ be this reality.  _

He has never been so grateful for  _ this  _ reality before in his life.

“But there must have been  _ something  _ I could have done,” Sven whispers helplessly. “There was so much happening at the end. I…” He curls his right arm around his stomach as best as he’s able while avoiding his other injuries, hunching forward. “Did I screw up? Did I miss something? Was there something I could have done better, and then Zerrin would still be…” He swallows. 

“No,” Slav says, very firmly. “As I stated before—Alteans are clever enemies, and very thorough. I do not believe there was anything you—or Zerrin, or Korvik—could have done ahead of time to prevent events from unfolding as they did. You were not meant to know that trap was there. That was the point of it.”

“But it seems so obvious now,” Sven whispers, bitter.

Slav snorts. “Things are very simple to predict from the future,” he says. “Details are always clear after the fact. It is much harder to know the tracks things can take before they happen.” 

“You always seem to have an idea of what could happen.”

“I did not foresee this, either,” Slav points out. He’d known about the mission, even if he’d had no part in planning it. He’d calculated a high chance of success based on the factors he’d had. He had been wrong. 

It grates, being  _ wrong.  _ It sends a frustrating itch up his spine, moreso when it ends in the deaths of fellow agents. Planning for catastrophes was supposed to be one of his best skills. 

But it is an unfortunate fact of life, both in general and as a Gun agent. There is a one hundred percent certainty that one cannot be right one hundred percent of the time. In some ways, it is the  _ only  _ reliable constant to exist.

Strangely, that of all things seems to calm Sven a little. After a moment, he murmurs, “There was really nothing I could have done?”

“No. Based on the facts we have since learned, I do not believe there is a reality in which the mission would have succeeded with all three team members alive,” Slav says quietly. “In most realities, all three of you should have died. You took steps to prevent that and assist Korvik in escaping. Of a large quantity of terrible options, with the data you had at the time, you chose perhaps the best possible one.” 

Sven swallows. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“It is  _ obviously  _ better than nothing,” Slav says. “It was a trap. It worked. Be grateful that two of your number survived. Because of your actions you and Korvik were able to get back to the…” he takes a deep breath, and then finishes with a disdainful sniff,  _ “space hospital  _ in time.”

Sven’s head lifts in surprise, and he stares at Slav with wide eyes. After a moment, he asks in bewilderment, “Did...did you just try to make a joke?”

“I am not completely humorless,” Slav says. Besides—he detests seeing Sven so devastated. It simply isn’t  _ right.  _

Sven blinks at him for a moment, before saying, “I guess not.” He smiles, though weakly. “Thanks for trying, at least…”

Slav shrugs. 

“Hey, Slav?” Sven asks, after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Me not being able to change that in any reality...that what I did was the best I could have done in any situation...that’s really the truth?”

“I told you I would never give you an impossible probability,” Slav says, blunt. “I have not, and I will never do so.”

Sven’s shoulders sag just slightly. He looks exhausted, but also strangely relieved. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. But thanks.” He hesitates a moment, glancing sideways. “Could I—”

Slav already knows what he’s asking about, and shakes his head in exasperation. “I will never understand this ritual,” he mutters. “Or why Earthlings value it so highly.” But he scrambles off the bed he’d temporarily taken up residence on and steps close enough that Sven can wrap his working right arm around him. 

“It’s comforting,” Sven mutters. “A tree-dweller Bytor wouldn’t get it.” 

Well, it’s hardly a false statement. 

Sven clings with another of his grapple-hugs for several ticks. It’s not as strong as usual, injured as he is and lacking one useful arm, but he squeezes tightly enough with his right arm that it almost feels more like an actual martial grapple. And he’s shaking slightly, Slav realizes. The experience had been traumatic for him—and now that his guilt has been dealt with, there’s no doubt the rest of it to manage. 

He really is quite young, by most race’s standards. Infantile, by some. And this is...quite a heavy loss to deal with for most, without even considering Sven’s own personal goals. Slav doesn’t understand exactly, but he does understand enough.

So he returns the hug—very carefully, of course, so as to not injure Sven further. And he says, “This will be difficult, and you will remember it. But do not let it stop you from trying to save others. Sometimes you will inevitably fail. But you will save far more often.”

Sven’s hug squeezes tightly enough that it borders on painful. But after a moment he relaxes, and there’s a note of fierce determination under the exhaustion and unhappiness. “It won’t stop me. I’ll keep trying.” 

And, as he finally lets go, he adds, “Thanks, Slav. For everything.”

Slav shrugs again. He does not estimate that he’s done all that much, personally; just altered perspectives a little. 

But for now, Sven seems better, so Slav will accept that as enough.

* * *

 

It takes Sven about two feebs to fully recover and be approved for missions once more. Sven takes to enforced bed rest and recovery about as well as Slav does, which is to say, not well at all. Though his frustration and anxiety with the situation do reduce somewhat when he learns that Korvik, at least, is expected to make a full recovery—after another four feebs or so.

That makes Sven feel a little better about his actions on the disastrous mission, as far as Slav can tell. But it does little for his inability to stay still for very long. As a child Sven often had some kind of activity or job to focus on, and even so he had still constantly been getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be around the base. Even in his late adolescence and early adulthood he had devoted vargas upon vargas to the training decks as he consistently stayed active. Most forms of strenuous exercise are strictly forbidden while he recovers, though, and it leaves him restless.

So he inevitably ends up bothering Slav, after being thrown out of the training decks and the flight simulators for the five hundredth time in a row. 

‘Bother’ is perhaps not an accurate word at this point, though. Sven sitting at Slav’s work table while he works on his projects is something Slav has long since gotten used to—though Sven had been much smaller when that was more common. Slav still trusts Sven to handle little busywork tasks well, though. And Sven’s chatter—though quieter and less common now as an adult—is still comfortably within normal parameters. 

But it is mildly irritating to see such a  _ notable  _ decrease in productivity with even the simplest tasks, with one of Sven’s arms incapacitated. 

“Quiznak,” Sven curses, after dropping one of the cables Slav had given him to untangle, just for something to do. “Having a broken arm is  _ awful.” _

“Only one arm pair is an evolutionary defect I have never understood,” Slav says agreeably, even as he handles three separate tasks with three different arm pairs. “The bipedal two-armed structure of a significant number of independent organisms throughout the universe has always struck me as a rather inefficient evolutionary conclusion. I can only hypothesize it was influenced by many unfortunate variables eons ago.”

“Says the guy with eight arms,” Sven grumbles. “I remember when you broke two. You were still  _ functional.  _ I’m useless.” He tosses the tangled cable on the table with disgust. “Too bad I can’t get more arms.”

“There are a number of Altean prototypes for advanced robot arms,” Slav says. “But Earthling brains are not designed to compartmentalize an entire secondary set of appendages for coordination. They would be of little use to you unless you completely lost one of your current limbs.” 

“Useless either way, then,” Sven says, glaring down at his broken left arm. “How many more movements?”

“Four and a half,” Slav says, as though Sven doesn’t know the answer, which he most certainly does. He’d asked the same question yesterday. 

Sven sighs in exasperation. “I’m never going to make it.”

But he does eventually make it. Four and a half frustrating movements later he’s finally given a clean bill of health on both his ribs and his arm as the splints and bindings come off. His burns have healed nicely, and he’s permitted back into the training deck to work on getting back into shape. He seems all the happier for it, and works harder than ever to make himself stronger. 

If Slav had to guess—and his guesses are usually right, determined by fact and careful observation—he would say Sven was determined to ensure the events of the disastrous mission never happen again. It is a noble goal, but an impossible one, and he makes sure Sven knows it.

“You won’t save everyone,” he repeats sharply, after tracking Sven down in the training deck again. The Earthling has been here for six vargas—a break should be a necessity by now. “There  _ will  _ be other casualties, no matter how much you train yourself.”

“I know,” Sven says, attacking a target dummy in a flurry of advanced strikes. 

“Then what is all of this for?” Slav asks, gesturing at the target dummy, and around at the practice weapons Sven has been drilling with for vargas. “There is only so much that you can push yourself before the effects become detrimental on  _ you.  _ You are rapidly approaching that point.”

“I know. I’m being careful,” Sven says. “I won’t push past my limits. And I know I can’t save everyone.” He pauses at the end of the katas, breathing heavily as he turns to face Sven. “But I can at least save  _ some  _ if I get better. That’s a start.”

Slav snorts through his beak. As always, Sven is  _ stubborn.  _ But he can understand the sentiment, after a fashion. 

“As long as you do not get yourself killed in the process,” Slav says. “Which, if you over-work yourself into exhaustion, has a forty-two point five chance of occurring.” He glares pointedly at the Earthling.

Sven grins sheepishly. “Okay! I can take a hint. I’m done.” 

Slav crosses his arms, content. At least  _ someone  _ in this organization still knows how to listen to him. 

* * *

 

Seven feebs later, probability once again takes a most unfortunate turn.

This time, Slav is fast asleep when the banging on his door snaps him awake. The interruption is irritating. He likes to get  _ precisely  _ six vargas of sleep per quintent, and a quick glance at the clock tells him he’s only gotten five. 

But a Gun agent yells through the door, “Urgent summons! Mission briefing with the leader in ten doboshes,” and Slav is instantly more alert. Jaxxor would not wake him without need. There is an eighty-three point seven percent certainty that there is unfortunate news to deal with.

Slav dresses and gears for a mission in precisely five doboshes, and at the command room in nine. Jaxxor looks as though he hasn’t slept at all, and there are a dozen holo-screens hovering around him with data that he studies tiredly.

“Slav. Good,” the leader says, as he enters. “We don’t have much time. This is urgent. I need to put a team together fast. You’re the only one with the technical expertise I have on-hand to handle this.” 

“Of course,” Slav says, but as he glances around, there isn’t a team of note. Slav is the only agent there, besides the leader himself. 

Jaxxor notices his glance around the room. “The others are coming now,” he says. “You haven’t worked with any of these agents before. Most of the ones who work well with you at all are already assigned to missions. I realize that can be difficult, but I don’t have time to put up with your complaints, Slav. You’ll just have to figure it out. We don’t have time to waste.” 

Slav scowls, and crosses his arms in frustration, but there is no point in arguing. The situation sounds time-sensitive. Jaxxor would be required to pull whatever resources he has at his disposal. It is just unfortunate that they will be poorly trained and ill-equipped to support Slav correctly. Especially in a situation that requires his technical expertise.

The door slides open with ten ticks to spare before the remaining agents are officially late, and three more figures step in. One is a Scathardian with some ten decafeebs of experience named Jesselinia. The second, a twig-like Rutaan named Cri’irik, has only been with the Guns for about four decafeebs. Slav has never worked with either of them, and has no idea if they will be a help or a hindrance in a technology-based mission.

The third agent is Sven. He grins at Slav’s surprised stare when he enters, and waves. “Guess we’re on this one together.” 

“Enough,” Jaxxor interrupts sharply. “Chat later. Time is of the essence.”

All four agents immediately focus on the leader as he enlarges several of the holo-screens and begins gesturing to the nearest one. It has an image of a particularly large ship of obviously Altean make. The prow of the ship is unusually enlarged, to make room for what appears to be a particularly large projectile weapon. 

The ship lacks an Altean design’s usual elegance, with far more bulk than is typical. By Slav’s estimation, this looks like Altean technology fused with something else, and the Alteans have not had a chance to refine it to their own tastes yet. 

He’s proven right a moment later. “This is a new weapon the Alteans have been developing in secret in one of their better-defended bases,” Jaxxor begins. “We had planted a few spies there in the hopes of preparing for an attack. Unfortunately, they died to get us this information.  It arrived within the last varga. We will not let that sacrifice be in vain.” 

He enlarges the next screen. “According to the intel those spies provided, the Alteans have been busy marrying Yenotik technology with their own in order to strengthen their military presence. As we all know, Yenokk was a fierce opponent to the Alteans, but finally fell ten decafeebs ago. We knew Altea had been having difficulties with the full pacification of the Yenotik race and had been dealing with rebels. We hadn’t expected them to move so quickly to integrate the technology that held them at bay into their own military setup.” 

“The Yenotik had excellent and efficient anti-spacecraft weaponry,” Slav notes. “Including surface-mounted Zaiforge cannons capable of destroying an entire Alpha-Galax transport vehicle, or any number of equally large combat ships.” It was the reason they had been able to resist even the Alteans for so long; even the massive bulk of the Altean army couldn’t risk getting close enough without significant casualties.

Jaxxor nods in agreement. “Exactly. It looks like the Alteans are using that Zaiforge tech to strengthen the power of their ion cannons. These are plans for a slightly smaller, but more portable variation of the surface-mounted Yenotik Zaiforge defense systems. The ship takes less time to charge than the original Yenotik design due to Altean crystal technology and alchemy and can produce nearly as powerful a blast. They are being referred to as pacification cannons.” 

The Gun agents shift uncomfortably. Sven’s eyes narrow in anger, and he breathes through his nose sharply in obvious disgust. 

Slav merely snorts. “Pacification. I suppose Alteans can justify ‘peace’ if even the threat of so dangerous a weapon turned on others forces them to submit rather than fight.” 

And Alteans had never been shy about proving their strength if they had to, either. This weapon would not just be for show. Alteans would  _ use  _ it, hypocritically in the name of ‘peace,’ if it meant putting down a large-scale rebellion or outright war like the Yenotik had given them. They would claim one regrettable attack, one widespread blast with hundreds of thousands of casualties, would save millions if not billions of lives of future generations from needless bloodshed and violence. 

As long as they were properly pacified and rehabilitated under the Alteans’ commands, at least.

“Our long-term goal is to figure out how to shut these down permanently,” Jaxxor continues. “But they already have one of these ships operational. A test. And it’s being rolled out towards Xennovika for its maiden voyage.”

Jesselinia hisses sharply. “That’s where one of the major warfronts against the Alteans is.” 

“Exactly,” Jaxxor says, expression grim. “That galaxy is one of the few forcing the Alteans to fight bitterly for every scrap of space they take. A pacification cannon in that range will decimate opposing forces. We can’t let that happen. I want this thing sabotaged before it gets there.”

“That will be difficult, with only four agents,” Slav says, even as he steps forward to start flicking through the intel with more focus. “Perhaps close to impossible.”

“Which is why stealth is paramount,” The leader says. “Slav, your job is to figure out how to disable that thing, and stop it. I don’t care how. Screw with the computer, steal the power source, blow the whole damn ship up if you have to, but if it gets within firing range of the Xennovika warfront and it’s still operational we’re all as good as dead.”

With the specs he’s reading through even as they speak, Slav doesn’t think that prediction is at all that inaccurate. 

“The rest of you,” Jaxxor continues, turning to Sven, Jesselinia and Cri’irik, “are to keep him alive long enough to pull that off, and do whatever he deems necessary to make it happen. I don’t care  _ how  _ ridiculous the order is. You do it. Period. To that end...” Jaxxor hesitates for a moment. “Slav is team leader.” 

Sven nods without argument, apparently unconcerned with taking orders from Slav. A flicker of disappointment and frustration crosses the faces of both Cri’irik and Jesselinia, before being quickly masked. “Yes, sir.”

“Slav...do not abuse this privilege,” the leader warns, turning back to him. “You have the most experience and the most knowledge for this situation. But  _ think  _ about your team, too.”

Slav sniffs. “I can and will calculate the best probabilities to ensure mission success and reduce casualties,” he says. 

Jaxxor grits his teeth, but then shakes his head. “No time for this,” he mutters. “Dismissed.  _ Hurry.  _ I will be warning our contacts in the warfront to prepare, but that won’t mean anything if this mission fails.  _ Go!” _

They go.

No one argues when Slav orders Sven to pilot them in the best stealth ship they have at their disposal. His scores on the simulators are better than everyone else’s. Nor do they complain when Slav spends most of the trip reading through the data on the pacification cannon, trying to find any point of weakness. 

There  _ are  _ weaknesses in the new design, but they will be difficult to reach, and they have very little time. The pacification cannon’s range is enormous, and it is already too close for comfort. The Alteans had deployed it stealthily and skillfully. Slav calculates their chances for success are less than thirty percent—and that is  _ only  _ taking into account stopping the weapon, not additional factors like the team surviving afterwards.

Stealth will be paramount, but it won’t last forever. And once they are found, their chances of living through the encounter drop from ‘highly unlikely’ to ‘most probably doomed.’ So as the cannon finally comes into sight on their visuals, a bloated and inelegant but extremely dangerous ship all the same, Slav makes his decisions. 

“Dock at the rear port airlock there,” Slav instructs, with a hologram overlay of the exact location. “It will be vulnerable to entry and the least likely to have a large number of guards. The ship’s defenses should not be notified for small ships, only larger fighters and cruisers. We should be able to overtake minimal guards without issue.” 

“Right.” Sven adjusts the controls as he guides them forward. Slav activates several jamming frequencies of his own design as they approach, to prevent the ship from registering them or blowing them out of space with automatic defenses, and to force the airlock to open for them as they dock.

“I will take Sven with me to the interior,” Slav instructs them all, once they are close enough. “There is a vulnerability in their power source and controls. The merging of Yenotik and Altean technologies has left a hole that can be exploited. I estimate a twenty-five point seven percent chance we can take advantage of this exploitation, assuming we can reach it. The odds of successfully finding our way there without mishap is about forty percent.

“But once I make the adjustments, the Alteans will no doubt learn we are here. Our chances for survival drop considerably then—I estimate twenty percent. You two—” he points at Jesselinia and Cri’irik, “—will maintain our escape route. Remain with the ship and ensure we have a means to run.”

“We’re supposed to be protecting you,” Jesselinia argues. “Those were the leader’s orders. Going further into the ship on your own is suicide.”

“His orders were to follow my instructions,” Slav says, irritated. “Preserving our escape route ensures we  _ all  _ live. If we do not, that twenty percent chance of escaping without casualties drops to less than five.” 

Neither of them look particularly happy with that, but Sven glances over his shoulder in the middle of piloting. “I can keep an eye on him,” he assures. “Don’t worry. His numbers aren’t as bad as they sound.”

Neither Jesselinia and Cri’irik look particularly happy about being left behind on a mission. They do, however, seem relieved at the thought of not having to deal with Slav for most of it. After a moment, Cri’irik grudgingly nods. “Fine, but you should stay on communications to keep us updated.” 

“Obviously,” Slav says. Do they think he is stupid? He’s been an agent longer than any of them.

They look irritated at the response, but Sven draws their attention by saying warningly, “Docking in twenty ticks. Get ready.”

Breaching the Altean ship’s airlock goes exactly according to plan, and the thick doors snap open to reveal six gladiator bots. Slav, Jesselinia and Cri’irik take them down with relative ease as they catch them by surprise, two apiece, while Sven finishes anchoring their little stealth craft to the ship. Afterwards, the two defense agents take up appropriate places of cover to protect their last hope of escape. 

“Where to?” Sven asks, readying his Gamaran rifle.

A good question. Slav has already memorized what intel he can on this ship’s layout. It is, for the most part, similar to a Yon-Galax combat cruiser, with some modifications to account for the extra weaponry. Their goal is in the lower decks of the ship, but traveling by hallways simply won’t do if they want to get there unnoticed. The odds of being found and captured or shot are well above eighty percent along all possible routes, before ever completing their mission.

“There,” he says instead, gesturing to the paneling above their heads. Large Altean ships often have a network of shafts used for maintenance and modifications, to keep the inner workings of the ship separated from the elegant, minimalist spaces of day to day activities. It prevents malfunctioning bots or lower-rank Altean soldiers from accidentally damaging internal systems and necessary components, and keeps spaces they will be occupying clutter-free. 

It also makes an excellent travel network for Gamara soldiers to remain unseen on stealth missions.

Sven doesn’t argue—merely offers Slav a boost so that he can reach the nearest entrance panel. Snapping the screws from the panel isn’t hard, and Slav squirrels easily from Sven’s shoulders into the confines of the shafts. Sven joins him a moment later, and follows gamely after him. 

Vent travel is something of an artform. It can be difficult to traverse these enclosed spaces silently, and takes care and practice to do so without attracting attention. Alteans are not stupid, either; they string their maintenance shafts on modern ships with sensors and alarms, knowing the Gamara’s possible use for them. Knowing what to look for and learning to move skillfully are important to this form of stealth.

Slav, fortunately, finds it enormously simple. His smaller size is actually a boon in this instance, giving him more room to maneuver. He can use his multiple arms to crawl along silently but quickly. And he’s designed systems built into his Gamara uniform ages ago to jam or disable Altean sensors, so he doesn’t have to worry about being caught that way.

For Sven it’s clearly a little more difficult. The shafts are designed for maintenance Alteans, so Sven can still fit in them. But he’s a little larger than the average Altean, many of whom can shape-shift to a smaller size for convenience, and it’s still something of a tight squeeze. He keeps up doggedly though, maintaining silence and maneuvering carefully so he doesn’t accidentally knock arms and legs against the sides of the shafts to alert Alteans outside to their presence. 

He follows gamely as Slav navigates the ship through the interior of the shafts, entirely from memory. Sixteen left turns, four right turns, and six shaft drops later, they are—as Slav had predicted—above the weapons power unit that will control just how well the pacification cannon fires. 

Or, with proper meddling, doesn’t. 

“Five more targets,” Slav murmurs, low under his breath, just enough for his communicator to pick it up and transfer it to Sven. “We will need to take them down quickly, before they can alert anyone.”

Sven squirms his way carefully forward until he’s squeezed in next to Slav, close enough that he can see through the vent to the room.  “I see them,” he mutters back. “Rush’em?” 

“A surprise rush does have the highest success ratio,” Slav murmurs. Though he’s hardly fooling himself; the mission’s odds of success are still extremely low, even now. “I will break the grate and head for the closest one. Ready?”

“Yes,” Sven says, eyes narrowed. His usual good-natured expression is gone, and he’s all focus now as he eyes the targets through the grate, one hand on his weapon. 

The grate isn’t hard to break; it wasn’t designed to keep anyone in or out. Slav is able to kick it out, and turns the subsequent tumble into a controlled, rolling dive. He comes to his feet, takes stock of his surroundings, and levels his gun at the closest Altean scientist, only just now turning around in confusion. The lightly armored combat alchemist drops when Slav puts two shots into him, and doesn’t get up again. 

Then Sven smashes down into the room in a whirlwind of activity. He lands skillfully, and takes only a few ticks to assess his surroundings, before he moves. His Gamara rifle raises, and he blasts the two farthest gladiator bots—both armed with rifles of their own, and closest to the doors—expertly in the chests. Both bots power down immediately, torsos shattered. 

Two Alteans remain, another combat alchemist and a soldier with a few ranks, based on her armor. The soldier howls and draws an Altean broadsword as she charges directly at Sven. The alchemist takes the far more reasonable approach of bringing up his wrist communicator to call for help.

Slav leaps forward to intervene, but Sven is even faster. He fires again, not on the soldier charging him, but on the alchemist. The scientist shrieks as his wrist unit sparks wildly, and clutches the injured limb to his chest. Slav uses the opponent’s distress and distraction to his advantage, putting two more shots into him, and the alchemist collapses.

By then the soldier is on Sven, swinging viciously at him with the Altean broadsword. Sven turns his Gamaran firearm to block, and the blade gets stuck halfway through its mass, grinding irritatingly. 

The soldier curses as she tries to force it through fully to Sven. But Sven uses the now-useless firearm as a lever instead, twisting it to yank the sword out of the soldier’s grip. He flings both sword and gun aside, and then manifests his own green wrist-mounted blade when the Altean is distracted. The killing stroke is quick, clean and efficient, and the last of the Altean opposition drops. 

“Clear,” Sven reports, after surveying the room once more. He retracts the wrist-mounted blade and surveys his broken firearm for a moment, before shaking his head. “That’s gone.” 

Slav absently shoves his own firearm at Sven, who takes it up automatically. “Use mine. And watch the door. In seventy-three point seven percent of all realities no additional soldiers heard that commotion and come to investigate. I am reasonably sure this will be one of those realities. But we should be prepared for the twenty-six point three percent chance they will attack.” 

Sven nods, and dutifully turns to face the door with his new firearm at the ready. Slav is reasonably confident that Sven can handle that part of the mission, and feels comfortable enough to turn his back to the door as he heads for the consoles. He’s read Sven’s progress reports and mission statistics, but witnessing him in action has reinforced those metrics considerably. Three opponents down within ticks, and a fourth disabled, all while maintaining stealth is an impressive record.

In a way it is both fascinating and alarming to see how focused Sven is when actually on mission, and how brutally efficient he is in combat, compared to his more easy-going nature around the base. Slav had  _ heard  _ how intense Sven could be when it came to fighting Alteans, but it is another thing entirely to witness it. Twelve decafeebs have clearly done little to make him forget what had been done to his parents, his friends, and his entire race. 

But that has nothing to do with the mission, for the moment, and Slav has a job to do. He begins accessing the consoles, cutting his way through the digital defenses the Alteans have in place. They are skilled, but Slav is better, and he manages to hack his way into their systems in under a dobosh. 

“I knew it,” he mutters, as he surveys the power controls and configurations on the pacification cannon. “The combination of Yenotik and Altean technologies is incomplete and inefficient. Yenotik rely far more on hard science, and derived their technology from other sources of power. The mystical qualities of Altean alchemy do not mesh completely with it, and the introduction of power crystals as an energy source and power refinement are not perfect. It works, but not well.”

“So we can stop it?” Sven asks.

“There is a ninety five percent surety of it in sixty percent of all realities. Assuming, of course, that we are not interrupted or killed once begun, which there is only a forty-three percent chance of.” Slav taps frantically on the holographic keys, and accesses the commands that snap open several panels on the far side of the room. As expected, snuggly stored away in the mechanisms are eight large red crystals as big as Sven’s head, surrounding an even larger crystal the size of several full-grown Earthlings. 

If Slav could smile, he would. Everything is suddenly very clear, and the most optimal choice in all realities is in front of him.

“Sven,” he orders, “switch the two crystals on the far left. We will ensure the power flows are unstable.” 

Sven looks puzzled at that, even as he leaps to do as ordered. “But they’re both red? It shouldn’t make a difference, should it?”

“It will,” Slav says, smugly. Red crystals offer the most power in any kind of configuration—that was why he himself used them in the Gamara bases’ own defenses. But red crystals are also by far the most unstable of any crystal power sources, and their energies can backfire if used improperly. The effects are generally easy to negate if one is careful, but with this much raw power to give the pacification cannon so much destructive energy, even a tiny miscalculation can be devastating.

And Slav can see what Sven, and probably most Alteans, cannot: the crystals are actually slightly different shades of red, and thus, slightly different levels of stability. Each port would be carefully configured for each crystal’s strength. Adjust them and there is an eighty percent chance it will cause a malfunction. 

One hundred percent, when Slav is done reconfiguring. 

“When you are done,” Slav says, even as he begins digging deeper into the cannon’s configurations, “crack the center crystal.” 

“Not break it completely?” Sven asks, frowning. He finishes switching the red crystals carefully, slotting them deftly back into place as though they belong. “They’ll notice and fix it before using the cannon.”

“That is what I am predicting,” Slav agrees. “There is a ninety-five percent chance they will notice the malfunction with their main power conduit crystal and replace it, and in doing so they will overlook the real sabotage.” He nods to Sven’s red crystals.

To Sven’s credit, he doesn’t argue further, like Slav predicts almost any other agent would have. Sven knows better than to waste time, and has always trusted Slav’s words. But even as he materializes his wrist-blade again, shifting his rifle to one side so he can strike at the crystal, he asks, “Do you think this plan will work?”

“I am very confident this is the reality where this works ninety-three percent of the time,” Slav says. “Even if none of us leave alive after, it will still render the cannon useless.” 

Sven’s only answer to that is to drive the point of his wrist-mounted blade into the largest crystal, scoring it deeply and obviously.

The alarm begins almost immediately. The Alteans would, naturally, have checks in place to ensure their power conduits would immediately be cared for in the event of damage. And just as immediately, one of Alteans from the bridge contacts to see what the problem is. “We’re seeing damage levels from the power bay. Report.”

Slav doesn’t answer. By his calculations it will buy them a few ticks, at least. When there is still no answer, the Alteans check visuals, and that’s when their stealth advantage is lost. 

“Prepare for attack,” Slav warns, over the communal link, so that Jesselinia and Cri’irik will be ready. “There is a ninety-five percent certainty the Alteans will locate the position of our ship and try to cut off our escape. We are almost done here.” 

Sven wordlessly turns to face the doorway, raising his firearm. Slav adds to him specifically, “I need one more dobosh.”

“You’ll get it,” Sven says, focused and determined.

The first Alteans breach the door just as Slav finishes reconfiguring the cannon’s setup, adjusting the delicate balance of Yenotik and Altean technologies and power configurations. By itself, the adjustments will most likely not be noticed. In conjunction with his additional sabotage, the power overload will be catastrophic. 

He triumphantly finishes off his work and begins closing screens to hide his actions just as the door to the room wooshes open, and the first Alteans storm through. It’s two bots, with only a pair of Altean soldiers to order them. Others will no doubt be incoming, but this is clearly the first group that could reach them.

Sven takes them out efficiently and skillfully. He targets the Alteans first, keeping them from giving any additional orders or warning. The gladiators begin to return fire, aiming at both Slav and Sven. Sven turns, tackles Slav out of the way behind the consoles, and then returns fire from cover, eyes narrowed in determination. Within moments, it’s over.

“I’m done,” Slav says, climbing his way to his feet and hastily shutting down the last of the screens. “Hurry! Let’s leave.” He heads for the ceiling panel they had come through, able to reach it with a careful scuttle and jump not uncommon to his race.

Sven hesitates, glancing back at the doors. They can hear more Alteans coming. Sven almost seems eager for the fight. 

“Sven!” Slav hisses sharply. “Let’s go!” 

Sven shakes his head, but this time he moves. He leaps, and Slav catches his one hand with several of his own. Sven is not light by any means, but Slav is strong enough to haul him up, for a few ticks at least, back into the shafts. 

Their escape is harrowing. Slav calculates their chances are just shy of twenty percent, and dropping quickly with every dobosh, but he is  _ determined  _ that this will be the reality in which they achieve that success. The Alteans follow them into the shafts behind, and Slav adjusts their course back to the Gamara ship to compensate. The Alteans might think they can be cut off, but nobody is capable of knowing Altean ships better than Slav himself. Sven follows dutifully, guarding where needed, and trusting Slav to know the way. 

They crash out of the shafts at their entry point in the middle of a firefight. Jesselinia and Cri’irik are still holding the hallway, and with it their only way back to the ship, but it is clear with a dobosh more they would be overrun. Cri’irik is injured, cradling one of his arms to his chest as he fires with his rifle with the other set, and Jesselinia struggles to hold up against the heavy fire in her direction. 

Slav and Sven manage to even the odds a little, taking the gladiator bots by unexpected surprise. Sven takes down three more, while Slav weaves through the laser blasts to their ship to begin the disconnect sequence. “Everybody in! Now!” he orders, and the team retreats, piling into the ship just as it closes and the airlock seals once more. 

They escape, though narrowly. Their stealth ship is exceptional at staying hidden, but the Alteans know about them now, and their fighters chase for a long time. With so many attackers so intensely focused on one little Gun ship, the chances that they get away at all are less than ten percent in the vast majority of realities. It’s only Sven’s exceptional piloting skills that get them out of there alive, while Slav administers first aid to his remaining agents.

But nobody is dead, and they do eventually lose the tailing Alteans. And the odds of everything working so  _ perfectly _ —an escape with no casualties, a plan being enacted so excellently, and against such dire odds with so little time—is  _ phenomenally  _ low. They should have died, a hundred times over in a hundred different ways, and still it would have been a worthwhile sacrifice if it meant taking down that ship. By Slav’s calculations, in less than one percent of realities would such perfect conditions work one hundred percent of the time. 

He can’t help himself. He actually  _ laughs.  _

“What the quiznak are you _laughing_ for?” Cri’irik snaps, gritting his teeth, as he tenderly cradles one of his now-bandaged arms close to his chest. “We almost _died_ because you split our team up! And that thing’s still moving towards the Xennovika warfront!”

Slav ignores him and his ignorance. “I think,” he says, still strangely _giddy_ from how perfect the alignment of variables had been, “that this is the reality where everything will turn out _fine.”_

One varga later, on their way back, his words are confirmed. Jaxxor contacts them mid-flight to inform them that the pacification cannon had begun preparing to fire on enemy ships in the warfront, charging a great deal of power—only for it to inexplicably backfire. It had not just failed to fire, it had completely decimated the ship itself. The first of Altean’s experiments is an unmitigated failure. 

Slav can’t help but smile in the Bytor way, pleased and smug with his success. The Altean development of these pacification cannons will be set back for decafeebs as they try to figure out what had gone wrong. The weapon won’t be turned on their allies. For a little while at least, they’ve made a clear-cut victory against the Alteans, and made something with a  _ nearly  _ impossible probability happen. 

“I am beginning to love this reality,” Slav says, and he really does mean it. 


	7. Chapter 7

The success against the pacification cannons is enough to boost morale amongst the Guns and every other faction that opposes the Alteans for a full feeb. Even Slav can see the changes in his fellow agents, and it is normally not something he looks for. The event had been more than just a thorn in the side of the Alteans; it had been a decisive blow against them. For their seemingly hopeless war, that was vital. 

It also brings other changes. Slav finds most of his old projects and upgrades are put on hold in order to study the data about the pacification cannons more thoroughly, as well as all of the rest of the information the agents who had recovered it died to deliver. The Alteans had been developing many dangerous things at that well-defended base that could potentially turn the tide even further in their favor. Slav’s new job is to find ways to stop the Altean weapons, while also learning how to upgrade the Guns’ own tech from the Altean findings.

Slav finds he actually enjoys the challenge. In his lab, it gives him interesting new things to study and new puzzles to find solutions to. And in the field, he is never so happy these days as when he is able to completely circumvent the Alteans’ morally appalling technology and science where no one else can. It is clear they believe these new improvements will make them impossible to oppose. Slav is more than happy to prove them wrong about  _ that.  _

And there is at least one other change with missions, too. Because, after the incident with the pacification cannons, Sven is always selected to accompany Slav in the field.

Jaxxor is not stupid. After the pacification cannon debrief, he had observed very quickly that while the other two agents did not mesh well with Slav’s requirements, and had been left behind very quickly, Sven worked well with him. And Sven is also, seemingly, the only agent to never outright complain about Slav’s actions on a mission. 

“We can’t afford to lose Slav,” Jaxxor says, at their next briefing. “Too many of these new developments require his knowledge. But we need him on missions to deal with these problems, too. To that end, Sven, I’m making you his bodyguard. At least for now.”

Sven blinks. “Me? Of course, but why?”

Jaxxor seems surprised that Sven agrees so quickly. Slav wonders how many other times he’s attempted this conversation with other agents. There have been some in the past that had stuck with Slav closely for two or three missions, but they are always incompetent, and inevitably move on to other tasks. In retrospect, there is perhaps a high probability they had been given similar roles.

But Jaxxor answers directly, regardless. “You get along with him. You work efficiently together. Your combat and piloting skills rate extremely high, and compliment Slav’s scientific and Altean knowledge excellently. I want you two as a strike team for any sudden problems that come up with the Alteans, especially in regards to unusual discoveries or new developments on their part.”

“I have no problem with this arrangement,” Slav says. He dislikes that others believe he needs a minder, but he will not deny that having Sven guarding his back while he worked on the pacification cannon’s systems had been useful. “Sven is perhaps the only competent agent here.”

Jaxxor rubs his forehead. “This is what I’m talking about,” he mutters under his breath, before glancing at Sven. “Do you have objections?”

“No,” Sven says. “Will we be working in a two-person cell, or with other teams?”

“Both,” Jaxxor says. “Whatever is needed, but you always stick with Slav, whatever he needs to do. That will be your first priority.”

Sven nods. “Okay.” 

The arrangement is more than acceptable—Slav finds it increases success ratios by at least fifteen percent. Other agents ask stupid questions, complain, or waste time arguing with him when he already  _ knows  _ the probability percentages and what is clearly the best option to take. If Slav takes the lead on anything at all, or breaks protocol to attend to the  _ obvious  _ solutions, they become frustrated and angry. 

Sven does not. Sven adjusts. He trusts Slav’s words absolutely and will follow if a late variable forces them to change their mission parameters or goals. He takes Slav’s probabilities of each given scenario seriously, without scoffing. He still asks questions, but they are the  _ right  _ questions, and he doesn’t waste time with inane arguments. He is happy enough following orders—and in the rare instance he digs in his heels and  _ does  _ protest, Slav knows him well enough to know it is for a legitimate reason, and not ignorance. Sven’s instincts are solid enough that Slav is willing to recalculate probabilities around them, and Slav is willing to trust Sven’s expertise when it comes to combat.

It makes missions much less stressful, and much more productive. Slav is happy with both.

Often, they are sent on missions to investigate or impede Altean developments and experiments with weaponry, alchemy, and engineering. Slav’s knowledge is most immediately required for these tasks, but they are often dangerous enough that Sven’s teamwork and combat prowess is a great help. 

In other instances Sven’s skillsets are the main focus of the mission—such as freeing slaves. Sven is able to communicate with younger or  _ hoktril- _ tagged non-cogs easier than many other agents. He also has a higher success ratio in assisting with their escape. In one notable instance, they even deliberately target another transport ship of Earthling slaves, a deeply personal mission for Sven that ends in the successful escape of five hundred Earthlings of varying ages. Slav is not strictly required for these, but he attends at Sven’s request, and provides assistance with probability calculations and translation. 

And sometimes they merely assist with more mundane missions where more agents are required for high-scale battles. Supply raids, attacks on bases or ships, and other high-stakes missions are not uncommon, when they work with ten or more agents to put down Altean opposition quickly and efficiently. Even then, Slav and Sven usually operate as a unit, utilizing their strengths and covering each others’ weaknesses. 

Slav would never have predicted it more than ten decafeebs ago, but he is not disappointed to find that the two of them make an excellent and highly efficient team. 

More than a decafeeb passes in such a way. Slav is often kept occupied in his lab, and when he isn’t, he is on missions with Sven. Over the course of many feebs they learn to work even more efficiently together, and rarely do they see any negative fallout; Slav’s probability calculations and Sven’s instincts prove to be an exceptional combination. Occasionally one or the other may become injured, but never seriously, and it can always be attended to quickly. 

Slav honestly begins to consider the possibility that Earthlings have a rare, inherent trait that alters probability. Sven’s luck is almost uncanny; more than once they are sent on missions that have very low odds of success, and they manage to escape with the mission completed and lives intact. Earthlings can be extraordinary risk-takers, too, gambling on probabilities like there are no consequences, but Sven still manages to pull through more often than not. It almost seems a foolish thought, but the success trends from each mission frequently correlate to calculated probabilities that are exceedingly low. 

His hypothesis is finally put to the test one decafeeb and two feebs into Sven’s position as bodyguard, when those positive probabilities finally seem to hit their limit.

It’s an intelligence-gathering mission that’s gone poorly. The intelligence from the same agents that uncovered the pacification cannons had suggested other, specific Altean commanders connected to those experiments, often responsible for transporting important data or supplies. 

Through a great deal of effort they had managed to locate one of those commanders, a cold-hearted and brutal Altean named Hira. Though not a scientist or alchemist herself, she was a skilled warrior often tasked with undertaking difficult missions to support Altean advancement and progress. It meant she was privy to a great deal of research and knowledge about those very projects.

But she proves to be a far more difficult opponent than anticipated. Slav, Sven, and three other agents manage to smash their way into her ship and, through excruciating effort, download the data. But escape proves nearly impossible. Two of the three agents with them are badly injured, and in the process of trying to cover them enough to get them out of there alive, Sven is separated from Slav.

The odds of Slav’s survival drop almost immediately, surrounded as he is by enemies. He makes the attempt to escape regardless, dodging between the odd ridges in the hallways of the Altean ship for cover as he tries to avoid numerous blasts by the gladiator bots. It works for two hallways, but things go badly when two shots hit him in the leg and lower abdomen, just below his last set of arms. He staggers and crashes to the ground, gasping in pain, and just manages to crawl his way behind the next bit of cover with his upper arms. 

His probability for survival is virtually zero, now. His left leg barely moves and sends bolts of excruciating pain through him every time he tries to shift it. His wounded side is bleeding too much. He could still move, if he had to, using his lower arms as auxiliary legs, scuttling like some sort of insect. But he won’t move quickly, and certainly not agilely enough to dodge the gladiators or their shots. And all the while, he’ll be slowly bleeding out.

Slav is as good as dead. 

He doesn’t look forward to dying, but it has always been an inevitable end to his personal probabilities one way or another. He knows exactly what to do to make even his death as efficient as possible, and earn at least a tiny bit of progress and success for the mission.

“I am forwarding all the data I have downloaded to the rest of you,” Slav says over the Gamara comms, hissing a little in pain as he speaks. He brings up his wrist computer and secures the data before sending it to all parties. “Get it out of here.”

_ “We’ll need you to interpret all of it,”  _ Sven responds over the comms. 

“I am not going to escape,” Slav says bluntly. He ducks in reaction as a blast hits the edge of his meager shelter and sends shaved bits of metal flying. “My odds of survival are less than one percent.”

_ “I’m coming back to find you, hold on—” _

“No,” Slav snaps. “The Alteans are searching for something, and have more plans for other developments. The need to ensure this intel returns to the Guns far exceeds the need to preserve a single agent. Your chances to escape decrease with each passing tick. So go!” 

There’s a disgruntled noise on the other side of the comms, as well as several acknowledgements from a few of the other agents. Most of them don’t enjoy Slav’s company or his orders, and it is never easy to abandon an agent, but they can also see the logic in his words. That at least is good. The Guns should be able to fight a little longer with that intel. 

As long as Slav isn’t taken alive, anyway. The Alteans can and will scan his brain for any useful intel they can get out of him, and Slav has a  _ lot  _ of intel. Base locations, Gun procedures, counter tech for the Alteans’ own technology. He will need to go down fighting. Perhaps he can use it as a chance to stall the enemy, and raise the rest of the Gun agents’ survival probabilities by a small percentage.

He lifts the firearm he’d dragged with him into hiding and prepares for his very last assault. 

Firing from cover while injured is difficult. Each time he twists it pulls at his injured side, and bracing with his injured leg is agony. Through excruciating effort, he manages to take down one gladiator bot, and then a second, and a third. 

There are still so many coming, though. The odds of Slav defeating them all in this condition are virtually nonexistent. He hisses in pain again as he tries to readjust his aim for the next gladiator—and freezes when a shadow looms over him unexpectedly. Another gladiator had approached in his blind spot, behind his own shelter, and was now directly over him. It reaches for him with one of his metal arms—

—and bursts into sparks and smoke as a green Gamara beam takes it squarely in the chest, knocking it back.

Slav yelps despite himself, hastily throwing up several of his arms to protect his face from metal slivers and sparks. The gladiator doesn’t land on him, and after a moment he drops his arms, just in time to see something else go hurtling past him in the direction of the remaining attackers. It’s small, black and gray with green highlights, and when it lands some thirty feet distant, it explodes. 

Ah. Makeshift grenade, then. But that would mean—

Sven appears through the smoke of the explosion, heedless of the danger, ducking and weaving through the now slightly reduced hail of laser blasts from the blinded and confused gladiator bots. He reaches Slav, tosses him over one shoulder unceremoniously like a coil of cables, and turns to bolt back the way he came. More of the gladiator bots begin to recover behind him and add to the blasts already heading in their direction, and Sven hisses as one of the shots grazes his right arm. But he doesn’t slow down for anything, and quickly ducks around a corner to relative safety.

Slav is stunned. His normally quick mind moves unnaturally sluggishly as he tries to comprehend  _ what  _ had just happened.  _ Part of that is blood loss,  _ a clinical part of him observes critically.  _ The other part is sheer impossibility.  _

But after a moment his mind seems to catch up with the rest of him. He automatically loops his tail around Sven’s waist for a more secure grip, and manages to scrabble with his arms until he can crawl his upper half up and over Sven’s other shoulder. His bad leg still hangs painfully, and his injured side throbs every time Sven takes another running step, but at least this is  _ moderately  _ more comfortable.

It also puts his head closer to Sven’s instead of dangling against Sven’s back, which is excellent for lecturing. “What were you  _ thinking?” _ Slav snaps. “What is  _ this?”  _

“A rescue,” Sven pants, as he ducks around another corner, and narrowly misses a laser blast to the head. “Obviously. I thought you were  _ smart.”  _

“I  _ am  _ intelligent,” Slav snaps. “Enough to know this is a fruitless endeavor and potentially puts not one but  _ two  _ agents at risk. I told you to run! Those were the best possible odds!” 

“I wasn’t going to run,” Sven says stubbornly. “I had to come back.”

“Your capacity as a bodyguard ends when the entirety of the mission is at stake,” Slav snaps. “That intelligence getting back to the base is  _ far  _ more important than  _ me  _ doing so!”

“I didn’t come back because I’m your bodyguard,” Sven snaps back. “I came back because you’re my  _ friend!”  _

Slav opens his beak to argue this, but finds himself struck without any words, and no idea how to respond to that.

Sven doesn’t seem to notice. He fires with his Gamara issued weapon to take down a stray gladiator, and continues along the hallway strewn with bot parts. “Nobody is dying on my watch,” Sven says. “Not if I can do something about it. That means you too.”

Slav shifts uncomfortably over Sven’s shoulder. He wishes he had something to  _ do  _ besides be carried along like a useless bundle of cables, but he’d dropped his firearm when Sven had collected him. “It’s still foolish,” he mutters. “An unacceptable risk. There is no  _ sense  _ to it.”

“Still worth it,” Sven retorts. “So just hang on. Once we get back to the ship, we can get you patched up. The others are holding the line an extra five doboshes.”

They make it. Barely. Sven had mostly cleared the way on his initial dash back to Slav, killing most opposition along the way. There are stray gladiator bots that had tried to circle around to cut them off, but Sven disposes of them easily enough. 

His dodges and counter-attacks are painful on Slav’s dangling leg and injured side. But, even suffering now not-insignificant levels of blood loss, Slav can at least cling securely enough that Sven doesn’t have to worry about pitching him off while he fights. And Sven does surprisingly well in combat while also carrying Slav. If Slav weren’t so frustrated by the entire experience, or so woozy from decreasing levels of blood, he might actually have been impressed.

They reach the Gamaran ship as the hatch just begins to close, at the end of their allotted five doboshes. Sven ducks through narrowly and crashes to the ground inside their ship as the airlock snaps shut, and the secondary Gun pilot peels away from the Altean ship and shoots out of there at max speed. 

They are pursued, for a while, but Sven helps at the controls and they do eventually escape with their intelligence and their lives. Slav is even reasonably patched up with first aid, until he can get to the infirmary (“space hospital,” Sven corrects cheerfully) for proper care. Slav’s head feels so slow and all of him feels so heavy from his injuries and the blood loss that he doesn’t even have the energy to be irritated about the factually incorrect term. Mostly.

It is an unusual mission to look back on, but it does give Slav’s hypothesis about Earthlings and their strange effect on probability solid credence. Saving Slav should have been all but impossible in that scenario. Sven had not only taken the risk, against all logic and reason; he’d actually made it  _ work,  _ and saved Slav’s life in the process.

Slav is grateful to be alive. But he struggles to fathom what had made Sven even take that risk to begin with, when probability was so firmly against him, and more likely than not Sven’s only reward for his actions should have been death. There is some other variable at work, here, one that Slav does not yet understand.

Clearly, even a genius like himself, so knowledgeable about probabilities and possibilities, still has much to learn.

* * *

 

Slav deliberates for feebs on that mission, even as they complete countless others, and he is given a dozen more things to study. He completes those missions, and he uncovers more information. But in his spare time, or during tasks easily completed with comforting repetitive actions, he considers that mission from every angle. 

How had Sven known how to take that risk? How had he known his chances for success were actually possible? Why had he done it at all?

Slav deliberates, but he never actually discovers an acceptable answer. At least, not until almost a decafeeb later, on another mission.

Sven has only just passed into his twenty-second decafeeb when they are assigned the mission, this time without any support. It is purely a stealth mission—the two of them are to infiltrate a hidden Altean docking base and set chips on each of the main consoles. The chips will let them transmit copies of any data or transmissions newly added or received to Gamara intelligence, allowing them to keep track of new orders or actions the Alteans make. 

The mission is routine. Slav and Sven have done countless stealth missions just like it by now, and work together quickly and efficiently. They do successfully plant the chips in each location. Slav even has time to review some of the data, and confirms his suspicions—Hira, and the research division of the Altean army, has been using this docking station more and more consistently. The knowledge obtained from Gamaran spying here will be invaluable towards putting a halt to Altean technological progression.

But something  _ changes  _ during their exit. Slav is not entirely sure  _ what  _ detail changes, and that irks him; he will need to review the scenarios more fully once they escape.  _ If  _ they escape. Because somehow, an alarm is triggered, and within just a few hallways of where they’ve hidden their ship. 

Both Slav and Sven are practiced enough by now to keep calm as the alarm begins to blare. There are at least a dozen other functions such an alarm could be for, besides an intruder alert. Allowing themselves to be flushed out into the open because of the noise would only draw attention to themselves. 

But the probability that they remain undetected drops rapidly to zero, when the maintenance shafts they are once again using for travel begin to hum and crackle around them.

Slav yips in pained surprise as he receives a light shock in the arm currently pressed against the floor of the shaft, and switches pressure from his left to his right. But that too is jolted sharply, as is every other part of him touching the surface. 

He automatically curls his serpentine body upward to put as much distance as possible between the floor and himself. But when his back brushes lightly against the ceiling surface of the shaft, that too receives a shock. The whole inner surface of the shaft appears to cause pain the moment it is touched.

The same is true for Sven as well, based on his soft curse behind Slav. “What is happening?” the Earthling asks, voice strained with obvious pain. And no wonder—Sven needs to lie completely prone to make it through most of the maintenance shafts. It means much more body surface in contact with this new and painful phenomenon. 

“It must be a new trick,” Slav hisses back, adjusting from foot to foot and his frontmost set of hands painfully, and trying to not touch the surfaces with anything. “ _ Ow!  _ Hira is no fool. There is an— _ ow! _ —eighty-two percent chance she— _ ow! _ —knows we are targeting her.”

“So what do we do?”

It’s hard to think clearly with the constant annoyances of the shocks, which Slav is sure are steadily increasing in strength. Already his frontmost hands are beginning to feel numb. “Exit,” he orders after a moment. “With this— _ ow! _ —activated, she knows we are here.”

“They’ll be waiting in the halls,” Sven says, through grit teeth.

“Our odds of survival are still— _ ow— _ better there than in here,” Slav counters. “This trap— _ ow! _ —is intended to debilitate us.”

Sven makes a frustrated sound that Slav can all too easily sympathize with, but only says, “Okay. Lead on.”

It takes an alarming amount of determination and raw stubbornness to reach even the next grate, but reach it they do. Slav minces his way from hand to hand as he crawls forward, and by the time he reaches the grate, his topmost hands have no feeling in them at all anymore. Thankfully, he has three other sets to shoot with that he has kept tight to his sides since the shocks began. He isn’t sure how Sven is supposed to manage, but Sven’s combat skills are at a high enough level that his chances for success are still reasonably good.

Slav doesn’t even attempt stealth as he rears his upper body up and smashes headlong into the grate, popping it out and letting it clatter to the hallway floor loudly. He himself tumbles out of the maintenance shaft and barely manages to turn his graceless fall into a moderately acceptable tuck and roll. Every Bytor alive would probably be ashamed of him for that. 

Sven hardly fares better. He all but dives out of the shaft, and thuds unceremoniously to the floor of the hallway, wincing as his firearm clatters down next to him. 

For just a tick the two of them merely lay there, attempting to regain their muddled senses. Then both of them begin to heave themselves to their feet, grabbing their weapons. Slav can already feel his front hands and feet beginning to tingle. Although neither is comfortable, he is reasonably sure he can function, especially if he uses his tail as a counterbalance to offset his stumbling. 

Sven looks distinctly worse off, however. He regains his feet shakily, and when he reaches for his firearm, his arms shake too. He doesn’t complain once, and his eyes are still narrowed in determination, but Slav can calculate reasonably that he’d fared much worse from the trap than Slav had. Slav had been able to reduce most of his contact with the painful shocks, after all. Sven had not. 

Still, there is no time to dwell on that. Slav does some hasty figuring as he snatches up his firearm in his second-most set of arms. “We exited four hallways early,” he reports. “We must hurry if we are to escape. This way!”

He leads the way. Sven dutifully follows. His cadence is slightly off—Slav suspects his musculature may have been temporarily affected—but once again, he doesn't complain. He knows what will happen if he slows down. 

The hallway they are in is blessedly clear, but with the noise they’d made on exit, that won’t last long. Speed is of the essence, so Slav hurries them down the hallway and around the corner—

—and straight into a waiting group of three gladiator bots. 

Slav skids on the metal ground with a yelp, trying to reverse his momentum and leap away as the gladiators begin to fire. He manages to scramble behind the cover of one of the protruding ridges so common to Altean architecture, just barely avoiding shots from the enemy bots. 

Sven is not nearly so lucky. His reaction time is far slower than usual, and his legs are shaky. He barely starts to turn before a lucky Gladiator shot cuts a deep burn in his side. His left arm drops to press against it automatically, and the Gamaran firearm trembles in his right hand as he tries to keep it level and fails. 

A second shot hits him squarely in the right shoulder. He drops his weapon completely as he stumbles back and crashes to the ground from the impact, crying out in pain. 

Reality, everything about it, seems to inexplicably  _ slow.  _ Even as Sven thuds to the ground, struggling to clutch at his injured side with his equally injured arm, Slav can all but  _ see  _ the numbers calculating in front of him. 

By themselves the injuries are still potentially lethal, especially that side, but manageable if medical care is reached in time. But with opposition between them and escape, even the short distance left to their ship will be all but impossible, not to mention leaving the hidden moon in one piece. Sven’s odds of survival are three percent. Perhaps less.

And the mission is an important one. Even if Hira discovers the chips they had planted—and now that she knows they are here, she will almost certainly look for some sort of subterfuge—Slav still had an opportunity to look at the data. He’d learned things that will be  _ invaluable  _ to the Guns of Gamara’s survival.

If he leaves now, the safety of that data is almost guaranteed. His chances of getting away on his own and ensuring the mission succeeds are a much more comfortable seventy-eight percent. He is agile enough to dodge between the attackers and make a break for the ship only four hallways away with manageable injuries.  

Attempting anything else reduces those chances of success on not just the mission, but ensuring he leaves alive as well. There is hardly any chance that Slav can successfully pull off a rescue. 

In pure numbers, in pure probability, in the most efficient and Gamara-supporting decision possible, the choice is  _ unquestionably  _ clear. 

But even the  _ thought  _ of adhering to his precious numbers, his reason and logic, makes him inexplicably  _ angry.  _ For the first time in his life, probability alone doesn’t seem good enough to make a decision. If he leaves now, Sven’s chances of survival are zero. And that is simply unacceptable to Slav, no matter how impractical it might be to even  _ consider  _ a rescue. 

Less than three percent is  _ still  _ better than zero. And Slav does not want to contemplate a reality that Sven no longer exists in. Much less one in which he causes it—however justifiable and logical the reason is. 

And suddenly he understands  _ exactly  _ how Sven had made that decision a decafeeb ago. He’d never known the odds when he’d rescued Slav. He’d just made the attempt anyway, because somehow, illogically, sometimes actions are  _ right  _ even when they aren’t  _ accurate.  _

It all comes to Slav crisp and clear, even as the gladiator bots pull the triggers for another round of shots at the prone Gamara agent on the floor before them. And suddenly, Slav is still angry—at the enemy, for daring to hurt his—his  _ friend— _ in front of him.

He hurls himself out from behind the shelter of the hallway ridges and slams hard into Sven, skidding them both behind the counterpart ridge on the opposite side of the hall. Sven grunts in pain as Slav crashes into him, and leaves a smear of red along the fastidiously clean Altean flooring, but Slav is successful at shoving him into a sheltered space. 

“Hang on,” Slav tells him. He does his best to sound reassuring, but he doesn’t have much practice at it, and he’s not sure if he’s doing it properly. “I will take care of this.”

Sven winces. “I can help,” he says, starting to push himself up, and cursing under his breath when he jars his injury.

“Stay put,” Slav snaps, sharper than he usually is with Sven. “Give me a moment.” And without waiting for an answer, he turns and dives out into the firefight again.

His agility is his greatest weapon here. He curls and rolls deftly across the hallway again, snatching up Sven’s gun in addition to his own as he skids behind a closer ridge to the gladiator bots. The gladiators are are focused solely on him now, as the clearer threat. That is good—even if it increases his own chances for death by a significant sixty percent, the odds that Sven will be injured further reduce. That is acceptable to Slav.

He takes a deep breath, and dives out into the laser blasts again.

A few of the shots come close to hitting him, but Slav is difficult to hit, quick and small as he is. He darts between the blasts, and as he does, he levels both his own firearm and Sven’s, with his second and third sets of arms, and returns fire. 

It’s difficult to aim like this, on the move and with multiple weapons, but with the way the gladiators are clustered it hardly matters. Stray shots take one in the leg, knocking it over. A second’s arm bursts, leaving it still functional but unable to shoot. It starts to advance as the third one continues to give it cover fire. 

Slav ducks down behind another hallway ridge, catching his breath, and then twists to fire from cover. The shots take down the third gladiator much more accurately, bursting its head.

Then the second rounds the corner, reaching for Slav with its one remaining arm. 

But unlike the last time this had happened, this time Slav is ready. He smacks aside the reaching arm with his tail, while leveling both firearms directly into the bot’s chest. Two quick shots, and the bot reels back, crashing to the ground in a heap of sparking shrapnel. 

Slav pants heavily for just a moment. That’s  _ one  _ encounter done. Statistically speaking, there will be others between them and their ship. The journey will not be easy.

Even so, Slav still doesn’t regret his decision. No matter how theoretically impossible it might be. 

He rushes back down the hallway where he’d left Sven. The Earthling has managed to haul himself upright into a sit, with his left hand pressed hard into his wounded side, and his right arm flopped uselessly in his lap. Even now, both arms tremble slightly from the after-effects of the shocks, which is unfortunate but not surprising. Even Slav’s hands still tingle a little, and he hadn’t been exposed as much as Sven had been.

Sven blinks at him dazedly when he reappears. “Are they all done already?”

“Yes,” Slav says curtly, “but we must move. Now. More will come.” He readjusts the firearms so they rest snuggly in his third and fourth sets of arms. Shooting from the lowest pair is a little difficult, but it will be better than nothing. 

Sven dutifully tries to haul himself to his feet, but groans when it pulls at his bad side. “Sorry…”

Slav tuts. “A pity you are so large now,” he observes. “You were much easier to carry fourteen decafeebs ago.” 

Sven smirks weakly. “Not my fault you got small.”

Slav snorts through his beak. “This will hurt,” he warns, as he pulls Sven’s left hand from where it puts pressure on the wound, and helps him transfer his right to it instead. Sven hisses through his teeth when both injuries are jarred, but doesn’t complain, and even does his best to apply pressure. 

With that as good as it’s going to get, Slav whips around to his other side, slithers under Sven’s left shoulder, and heaves. Using his serpentine body like a jack, he’s able to lever Sven to his feet, though with some difficulty. Sven isn’t just large; he’s very muscular, and it makes him  _ heavy.  _

But although Slav is statistically weak _ er  _ than most other Guns of Gamara agents, due to his small size and stature, it by no means makes him  _ weak.  _ He gets Sven on his feet, and keeps him there. Sven leans on him heavily, and Slav is one hundred percent certain his spine will protest  _ insistently  _ later. He makes a note to increase his physical training, to be better prepared for a similar situation in the future, should they survive the present one. But for now he manages.

“Is this going to work?” Sven hisses through his teeth, wincing with each step as Slav starts to move them forward.

“Don’t worry. This is the reality where everything turns out fine.” 

Sven coughs. “You...sure about that? Doesn’t...seem so fine right now…” 

“I told you,” Slav says waspishly, “I do not give impossible probabilities.” He will  _ make  _ this reality be the one where Sven survives.

For all his assurances, it almost isn’t. There are four more encounters with gladiators, each one more dangerous than the last. Each time, Slav is forced to hastily shove Sven into some form of shelter—usually the hallway ridges—and do what he can to clear the ways. Sometimes he’s even forced to start shooting as he guides Sven to safety, using his third and fourth sets of arms to at least cause a distraction while he maneuvers the injured agent out of the thick of the firefight.

And each time there are more gladiators. Slav is not the highest ranked agent when it comes to combat; that was why they had assigned him Sven in the first place. Usually in firefights like this he provides support or distraction why more seasoned combatants deal with the actual threats. 

But that is not an option now, and Slav is all Sven has left. If Slav backs down, Sven dies. Period. There is no reality in which he could survive those factors on his own. So Slav fights, with the reckless abandon of a trapped animal—or, perhaps, an Earthling with an obscene disregard for the laws of probability. And somehow, miraculously, that works, proving that perhaps Sven’s luck is still hanging on somewhere. 

Even four hallways are grueling. They could span a galaxy, for all the distance they feel like. But step by hard earned step, they make their way forward—Sven fighting for every movement he makes, and Slav fighting for every variable that lets him keep doing so. 

Smashing through the doorway to the outside feels like an impossibility, but, shockingly, they make it. The darkness of space and the pinprick of stars are a welcome sight to Slav, who hastily checks that Sven’s helmet is secured safely with one set of arms as he helps him move towards their hidden ship. 

Sven’s feet start to drag now, and he’s gasping for breath, forehead clammy-looking behind the glass of his helmet. Slav recognizes the signs of shock. But he keeps fighting to move gamely, even as he leans more and more heavily on Slav. 

“Just a little further,” Slav promises. “We have made it this far. The odds of reaching the ship are well over forty percent now. We are close.” 

“Good,” Sven slurs under his breath.

And then they are there. The ship is hidden by one of Slav’s smaller gravity generators, but Slav recalls exactly where he left it. They step into the affected area, and Slav ignores the swirl of colors generated by folded space as he guides Sven towards their ship in the very center. 

He barely manages to get Sven on board before the Earthling’s legs finally give out beneath him, and Sven collapses. Slav manages to hang on enough to keep him from smashing hard into the ship’s grating, but can do little more than leave him stretched out on the floor. If they don’t escape now, they never will.

“I must pilot,” he says sharply, as he digs out the first aid kit and pushes it in Sven’s direction. “Attempt to attend to yourself. Do  _ not  _ die. That is an unacceptable probability.”

“Right,” Sven says dazedly, as he wearily reaches for the kit. Slav throws himself into the pilot’s seat.

Slav is an acceptable pilot. He passed all the required simulators and can reasonably handle most ships. But he lacks the instinct or flair for flight the way others like Sven do. Still, what he lacks in skill, he more than makes up for in intelligence. 

So while the Alteans may be better pilots, Slav is by far the better strategist. He is able to calculate the Altean attacks and tracking attempts and formulate counter-strategies to deal with them. In the end, he evades the Altean chasers not by out-flying them, but by breaking line of sight behind the nearby moon long enough to re-activate the gravity generator. To the Alteans, it will be as though he has disappeared. They buzz around angrily searching for him, but in the end they relent, returning back to their base in a fury.

Slav cares little, as long as it gives him time to deal with Sven. The Earthling is in a bad way by now, and Slav carefully applies first aid to patch up the injured wounds and do what he can to stop the bleeding. But it is imperative more than ever that Sven reach medical care; his chances of survival are already far too low for Slav’s liking. So the first opportunity he has to flee, he does, sneaking back to the Gamara base as stealthily as he can.

He delivers Sven, still alive, to the care of the infirmary. But the first quintent is frightening all the same, as Sven hovers on the edge of survival from far too much blood loss. He pulls through, but it’s harrowing enough that Slav alternates between pacing restlessly outside the infirmary, and rearranging any number of items to maybe, possibly, adjust the variables for a positive outcome. At least, until Michela tells him to knock it off, before she knocks him out. 

So it comes as a great relief when, twenty-eight vargas after their return to the Gamara base, Sven wakes. It is even more of a relief when one of the med techs notifies Slav that Sven has asked to see him, because that indicates Sven is coherent enough to even make requests. 

Slav is satisfied to confirm that Sven is indeed conscious, and maintaining awareness even with the number of drugs currently pumped into his system for healing and pain relief. He’s propped slightly upright to relieve pressure on his injured side, which is heavily bandaged. His right shoulder is also bandaged, and based on the way his right arm hangs in a sling, probably not very mobile or useful at the moment. 

“Hey,” Sven greets, with a sleepy smile. “You made it okay.” Slav reassesses Sven’s mental state immediately— _ mostly  _ aware, but perhaps with some moderate effects from the  _ extremely  _ effective painkillers he knows the infirmary uses. 

“Obviously I did,” Slav says, as he reviews Sven’s medical records for his current visit for any mistakes. Everything was handled appropriately. He relaxes a little. “How else do you think you got back here? Someone had to pilot us out of there.”

Sven wrinkles his nose at the question that is perhaps a little too difficult for his current drug-addled problem-solving abilities. “Uh...distress signal? Last moment rescue? You piloted but got hurt in the process?”

“All minute possibilities, but less than ten percent based on the variables at the time,” Slav says, as he circles around to sit next to Sven’s bed. “The most logical explanation is simply that I was capable enough to fly us back. Which is exactly what happened.”

“Oh.” Sven blinks. “Well. I’m glad you’re okay anyway.” 

“I could say the same to you,” Sven says, crossing all four of his arm pairs. “You are probably more deserving of the sentiment, considering how high your probability of ‘not okay’ was. How do you feel?” 

“Like I should hurt, but I don’t,” Sven says. “Head’s fuzzy.”

“That would be the asportherax,” Slav says.

Sven smiles a little. “They gave me the really good stuff this time.” 

“Depending on your definition of ‘good,’” Slav says dryly. He’s never liked the chemical personally. It is extremely effective at pain suppression, but he has never liked how difficult it is to think when under its influence. 

“Seems good right now,” Sven says. “Thanks.”

Slav blinks. _ “I  _ did not approve the asportherax for you.” 

“No,” Sven clarifies, frowning a little—like he expects Slav to already know what he’s talking about. “Thanks for the rescue.” 

Slav blinks again. He isn’t certain how he was supposed to predict  _ that  _ logic jump. “Oh.” 

“You say ‘your welcome,’” Sven prompts seriously. 

“You’re welcome,” Slav parrots. Mostly because Sven looks like he’ll be stubborn about it, and encouraged by what is certainly a very  _ large  _ dose of asportherax in his system, not because Slav cares about verbal conventions. 

“How come you did it?”

“What?”

“Rescued me,” Sven says, very slowly and carefully. 

“Why would I not?” Slav counters.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Sven says. He’s clearly concentrating very hard on his thoughts, and on each word as he speaks. “Not logical. You could’ve run and got out. Good for mission. Could’ve died saving me. Bad for mission.” 

That exact thought had crossed Slav’s mind during the mission itself, and he’s genuinely impressed that Sven had deduced such a thing in mid-combat or while under the influence of some serious painkillers. 

It also sends an uncomfortable stab of something painful and a little embarrassing through Slav’s three hearts. He can only assume this is what shame is. Despite all the absolute, numbers-supported  _ logic  _ to the potential decision, he is not proud of himself for having considered it. 

But it isn’t the decision he made, either. It’s only a  _ potential  _ decision he  _ might  _ have made, and that possibility—that reality—has now collapsed. And the reason Sven is so patiently waiting for…

“I recently learned that friendship is an acceptable variable in complex decision making,” Slav says, after a moment. “It was….perhaps...not the most logical variable to base a decision off of. But it did seem the most...right.” 

Sven blinks at him for a moment, but then his expression grows into a big smile—more like his delighted smiles when he was a child than his softer ones now. “Wow, Slav. Thanks. That means a lot.” 

“Yes. Well.” Slav shifts a little uncomfortably, unsure what else to say. 

Sven, at least, seems to have a better idea. “Can I?” he asks, holding out his left arm in an open gesture. 

Slav sighs. “Your left side is injured.” 

“Yeah, but I’m not going to feel it,” Sven says. “Good drugs, ‘member? Please?”

Slav gives him a deadpan look. But he dutifully hops off his seat to scuttle close enough for Sven to wrap his free arm around him, and drag him in close in a much weaker than usual but still no less heartfelt hug. 

“Thanks, really,” Sven mutters into his topmost shoulder. “I thought I was dead. Thank you.” 

Slav snorts through his beak. “You are not permitted to die on my watch, either. I invested far too much in your education for you to disappear so early.” 

Sven laughs, and then immediately groans, releasing Slav from his one-armed grapple. “Ow. Don’t be funny. Hurts to laugh. I can still feel that.” 

“Astounding, considering the dosage you are on,” Slav says, glancing over at the hologram readouts. “But it looks like your next dosage will be automatically dispersed in less than a dobosh. At which point, you will probably fall back asleep again.”

“That’s okay. Tired,” Sven mutters, settling back against his supporting pillows. 

Sure enough, the moment his next dose of medication is automatically dispersed based on his current medical requirements, Sven’s eyelids flutter. He is asleep in under fifteen ticks, completely unresponsive to the world between the combination of exhaustion and medication. 

Slav leaves him be, satisfied that Sven will be okay. It will be good for him to rest when he can. In perhaps one spicolian movement, Slav predicts there is an eighty-eight point nine percent certainty that Sven will be restless and desperate to get out of bed, despite the two feebs ahead of him that it will take to make a full recovery. 

But there will  _ be  _ a full recovery. And Sven is  _ alive,  _ despite the smallest probabilities, against all the numbers. 

Truly, Slav  _ loves  _ this reality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will actually be an epilogue. Almost done now!


	8. Epilogue

Two and a half decafeebs after Sven’s recovery from near death, Jaxxor calls them for an unanticipated mission. 

“Tell me what I’m looking at,” he says, without any preamble, and brings up a holoscreen with a single video clip that runs on repeat. 

For a moment, all Slav can do is stare. In all his decafeebs of life, he has  _ never  _ seen anything quite like this image. A ship—or rather,  _ half  _ of a ship—emerges out of an enormous, bright distortion in space. The distortion appears to be some sort of massive energy emanation, but Slav can hardly begin to fathom what exactly it could be emitting. 

“I...I don’t know,” Slav admits, stunned. Sven regards him with open shock, before turning to look back at the image.

“That’s an Altean ship,” he says after a moment. “Looks like...an Oct-Galax vessel?”

“No,” Slav says after a moment, peering at the ship curiously. He’d been so surprised by the phenomenon around it he hadn’t given the ship at all much thought, but now that he looks more closely, there are too many details that are wrong. “It is  _ similar  _ to an Oct-Galax, but some details are not accurate. The bow of the ship is too tapered, and the side panelling does not match any of the Oct-Galax variations over the past ten thousand years or so, when it was designed.” 

“So what kind is it?”

“None that I know of,” Slav admits. 

“You know all the Altean ships, Slav,” Jaxxor says. “Your Altean expertise is why we brought you into the Guns to begin with.”

“I know,” Slav says. “This is not a model that has ever existed, to my knowledge. It looks like a deep space exploration shuttle of some kind—perhaps it is an extremely old model that predates the Galra-Altean war.” Though, not even that sits right with Slav. Something about the probabilities of that minuscule chance don’t seem to  _ quite  _ add up. 

Jaxxor sighs, but swipes his hands through the air, bringing up several other holoscreens of data. “Another agent tracking the Altean advancement army found this anomaly and immediately brought back as much data as they could. We have reason to believe this is the thing Hira’s forces and scientists have been searching for...whatever it is.”

“It is certainly emitting a great deal of power,” Slav says, as he begins to read over the datasets the Gamaran agent had provided. 

“And they want to what? Siphon it?” Sven asks.

“Or take whatever is causing it,” Slav says. He frowns. “How was this data gathered?”

“At a distance,” Jaxxor says. “The agent circled that energy signature completely—the other half of the ship is not on the other side of that thing. They then reported that they used a probe, but it was destroyed when it got too close to the...whatever it is. They didn’t dare approach on their own.”

“A wise decision,” Slav admits. “Based on this data, the spatial distortion will stress any object that approaches, shredding it to pieces.” 

He frowns, and crosses all of his arms thoughtfully as he reads further. “They amount of energy being emitted is more than the instruments could handle. But there is no sign of radioactive decay. It is neither thermal nor gravitational. The energy readouts resemble quintessence the most strongly, emanating from the exact center of the ship. But it is at a scale I have never seen before, even compared to the unstable quintessence fields we use to hide this base. This phenomenon is all but impossible when juxtaposed against my understanding of the laws of reality.”

“Reality is what you  _ do,” _ Sven says, incredulous. “And this doesn’t make sense to you?”

“No,” Slav says. “A fascinating puzzle.”

“One you’re going to get the answer to,” Jaxxor says. “I’m sending you two there immediately. Find out what’s causing this and why the Alteans want it so bad. Make sure it stays out of their hands. Do whatever it takes.” 

“Yes, sir,” Sven says immediately, saluting. Based on the way his eyes narrow, the opportunity to steal anything out from beneath the Alteans—and Hira, especially, a thorn in their side in recent decafeebs—is enticing even outside of duty. Even at nearly twenty-five decafeebs, Sven has never forgotten where he came from, or what the Alteans did. 

“Of course,” Slav says. Despite the importance of the task, he can’t help but be intrigued by the curious puzzle before him. There is precious little in this reality these days that he doesn’t understand. This should prove...interesting. 

Jaxxor dismisses them, and Slav and Sven both hurry to the docking bay. “What do you think we’ll find?” Sven asks, curious.

What indeed? What could the Alteans want so badly they would have an entire combat division, and skilled scientists and alchemists, out searching for it? 

“I don’t know,” Slav admits. “And without knowing exactly what this phenomenon is, it is difficult to analyze the potential outcomes related to it. So I think it is best to be prepared for any scenario. If we can retrieve whatever this energy source is that the Alteans want so bad, we will do so. If we cannot, we will destroy it. Better to keep it out of their hands.”

“We’re going to need a lot of bombs, then,” Sven notes. “That ship was pretty big.”

“Yes.”

Sven hesitates. “Do you think we can do this?”

“Nothing is ever certain,” Slav says. “But I think in more than eighty percent of all realities we are capable of succeeding to some degree. I think we will be victorious.” 

Besides—despite not knowing what they could find on that ship, be it strange technology, weaponry, friend or foe—there is a gut instinct in Slav’s core that tells him that this is the reality where everything works out fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people were expecting this to get into _Hole in the Sky._ That was never the intent of this fic, which was designed to just be a 'prequel' to explain how Sven and Slav met. That said, I had a blast playing with these characters. I wouldn't mind picking this universe up again one day, really.
> 
> Incidentally, for anyone interested, here's the final cameos listing for each of the OC's that also appear in other fics of mine, and where you can find them:  
> Serrata, Turis: Prince of Memory  
> Katala, Cri’irik: Seven Vargas  
> Xencherak: The Greatest Challenge  
> Jesselinia: Cotton Guardian


End file.
